THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 

OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 

GIFT  OF 

CALIFCRFIA  STATS  LIPRRART 


ant 


From  an  . 


SECTION  11.  The  Librarian  shall  cause  to  be  kept  a  register  of  all 
books  issued  and  returned  ;  and  all  books  taken  by  the  members  of  the 
Legislature,  or  its  offij^rs,  shall  be  returned  at  the  close  of  the  session. 
If  any  person  injure  or  W^o  return  any  book  taken  from  the  Library, 
he  shall  forfeit  and  pay  to 'Wft  Librarian,  for  the  benefit  of  the  Library, 
three  times  the  value  thereof ;  vid  before  the  Controller  shah  issue  his 
warrant  in  favor  o'  any  member  oT'&fficer  of  the  Legislature,  or  nf  this 
State,  for  his  per  diem,  allowance,  or£«ftary,  he  shall  be  satisfied  that 
such  member  or  officer  has  returned  all  bob^Htaken  out  of  the  Library  by 
him,  and  has  settled  all  accounts  for  injuring  fuch  books  or  otherwise. 

SEC.  15.  Books  may  be  taken  from  the  Library  by  the  members  of  the 
Legislature  and  its  officers  during  the  session  of  the  same,  and  .-it  any 
time  by  the  Governor  and  the  officers  of  the  Executive  Department  of 
this  State  who  arc  required  to  keep  their  offices  at  the  scat  <>f  ^ivi  rnmcnt, 
the  Justices  of  the  Supreme  Court, .the  Attorney-General  and  the  Trustees 
of  the  Library. 


Library,     ( 


•*  '"'r  \> 

\-»     v)      ^      \ 


EIRENE 


OR, 


WOMAN'S   EIGHT. 


BY 


MARYV  CLEMMER  •)  AMES. 


u  Eirene — a  name  which  signifies  peace." 
' '  The  ornament  she  wore — a  lowly  heart. " 


NEW   YORK: 
G.    P.    PUTNAM    &    SONS, 

ASSOCIATION    BUILDING,    TWENTY-THIRD    STREET. 
1871. 


TO   MT   MOTHEE. 


CONTENTS. 


PAGE 

CHAPTER      I. — SEEKING  HER  FORTUNE 1 

"          IL — THE  CAMBRIDGE  STUDENT 15 

«        III.— GOING  HOME 27 

«         IV.— THE  SHOP  GIRL 34 

"           V. — EIRENE'S  SUMMER   .......  46 

"         VI. — FLIRTATION 56 

«*       VII.— THE  CAMP-MEETING 67 

"     VIII.— PAUL'S  WOOING 79 

"        IX.— WHAT  CAME  OF  PAUL'S  WOOING  .        .        .        .•  93 

«           X.— THE  CRISIS 106 

"         XI. — ANOTHER  LIFE  BEGUK 114 

"       XIL— THE  GREAT  CITY 120 

«*     XIII.— THE  DE  PEYSTERS 134 

«      XIV.— HILLTOP      .        .."-.'.        ...        .        .        .  142 

"       XV. — THE  WAR.    EIRENE  TO  HER  MOTHER            .        .  152 

"      XVI. — EIRENE  TO  HER  MOTHER.     MARYLAND  HEIGHTS  155 

"    XVII.— THE  ARMY  NURSE          .        .        .        .        .        .  158 

"  XVIII. — EIRENE'S  DIARY.      THE  SURRENDER  OF  MARYLAND 

HEIGHTS  AND  BATTLE  OF  HARPER'S  FERRY    .  163 

"     XIX.— EIRENE'S  DIARY.    DEATH  OF  WIN          ...  169 

(t       XX. — EIRENE'S  DIARY.     DR.  DE  PEYSTEE   .        .        .  175 

"     XXI. — THE  BEGINNING  OF  THE  END          .        .                .  179 

"    XXII.— THE  WEDDING  AT  HILLTOP         ....  191 

«  XXTTI.— ONE  DAY  OF  HER  LIFE  199 


EIEENE. 


i. 


LEAVING  HOME. 

"  GOOD-BY,  Rene." 

"  Good-by,  Win."  Here  the  soft  voice 
broke,  and  a  pair  of  brown  eyes  looked 
through  gathering  tears,  while  the  young 
girl  who  owned  them  leaned  across  a 
rough  gate  and  kissed  a  boy  who  stood 
inside. 

"  Good-by,  Pansy,"  she  said,  turning 
to  a  little  girl.  "  Be  a  good  girl  to 
mother  till  I  come  back,  and  I  will 
bring  you  a  new  dress  as  blue  as  the 
sky.  Think  of  it,  Pansy,  and  don't 
cry !  " 

This  promise  of  a  new  dress  stopped 
Pansy's  tears.  She  opened  her  purple- 
blue  eyes  wide  and  laughed  with  de 
light.  She  threw  her  arms  around  her 
sister,  and  exclaimed :  "  Rene,  how  long 
before  you  will  comeback  and  bring  me 
the  new  frock  ?  " 

"  Very  soon,"  said  Rene,  and  she  kiss 
ed  the  child  on  her  yellow  hair. 

"  Mother  !     You  will  pray  for  me  ?  " 

"  Yes.     Always." 

"  Come !  We  shall  be  too  late  for  the 
cars !  They  never  stop  for  good-ln/s" 
said  a  kind  voice  a  little  impatiently. 
This  call  came  from  an  elderly  man  who 
sat  waiting  in  a  rickety  buggy.  As  he 
spoke  he  mildly  jerked  the  reins,  as  if 
to  impart  a  little  of  his  own  impatience 
to  his  horse ;  but  the  jerk  only  made 
the  meek  old  mare  stretch  out  her 
straight  neck  a  little  straighter,  stiffen 
her  legs  as  if  they  were  riveted  in  the 
sod,  and  she  herself  willing  to  stand  till 
the  end  of  the  world  without  stirring. 

At  the  sound  of  her  father's  voice 
Eirene  turned  to  her  mother  with  a 
sudden,  deep  embrace,  then  hurried 
from  the  gate,  climbed  up  into  the 
ancient  vehicle,  tucked  herself  into  a 
corner  of  the  rusty  seat,  and  without 
looking  back  said,  "  Now,  father." 

"  Get  up,  Muggins  !  " 

But  Muggins  was  decidedly  averse  to 


"getting  up."  She  seemed  to  know 
that  it  involved  carrying  Eirene  away. 

"  Muggins,  I  say,  get  up  !  " 

The  injunction  this  time  was  accom 
panied  by  so  decided  a  jerk,  that  Mug 
gins  did  "  get  up  ;  "  that  is,  she  began 
to  move  away  at  the  slowest  of  all 
paces.  The  aged,  straight-necked  horse, 
the  old  wagon,  the  gray-haired  man, 
the  young  girl,  went  shaking  together 
along  the  stony  hill-road. 

A   COUNTRY    RAILWAY-STATION. 

The  October  sun  had  filtered  its  gold 
through  a  hazy  heaven  till  the  wide 
spaces  of  air  palpitated  with  topaz 
mist.  An  uplifted  veil,  it  trembled 
above  the  faces  of  the  hills,  and  floated 
in  luminous  nebulae  far  down  the  valley. 

On  the  mountain-sides,  in  the  deep 
gorges,  in  the  wide  woods,  the  carnival 
of  color  had  begun. 

The  maples  fluttered  their  vivid 
ambers  and  scarlets ;  the  oaks  wore 
their  garnet ;  vines,  ruby  and  yellow, 
festooned  the  rugged  boulders  with 
flame-like  hues. 

Armies  of  ferns  stood  by  the  way 
with  nodding  plumes  and  crimsoned 
falchions.  Through  the  mellow  air 
rained  the  ripe  leaves  of  October. 

With  a  low  stir  of  melody,  they  rus 
tled  down  into  the  stony  road,  and  the 
ruthless  wagon-wheels  passed  over  them 
and  crushed  them.  They  were  full- 
juiced,  and  their  exuding  wine  filled 
the  atmosphere  with  a  faint,  delicious 
fragrance.  The  air  was  sweet  also  with 
the  perfume  of  the  pines,  distilling 
their  balsams  amid  the  stillness  of  the 
hills.  The  world  was  all  athrill  with 
murmurous  music — the  quick  rustle  of 
the  squirrel  running  through  the  loosely- 
meshed  leaves,  the  shrill  trill  of  the 
cricket,  and  the  low  hum  of  insect- 
wings  astir  on  the  borders  of  silence. 
Over  all  bent  the  azure-amber  firmament. 


3 


EIREXE  : 


It  was  one  of  the  rare  days  which  God 
makes  perfect. 

"  How  sweet  the  pines  smell,  father. 
I  can't  make  it  seem  that  I  am  not  going 
to  see  these  dear  old  woods  any  more ; " 
and  as  she  uttered  these  words,  Eirene, 
who  had  been  silently  taking  in  color 
and  odor  and  sound,  gazed  around  her' 
with  an  expression  of  unutterable  love 
and  sadness,  strangely  at  variance  with 
a  face  so  young. 

"  Yes,  you  will,  child.  You  will  see 
the  old  woods  at  Thanksgiving.  You 
know  that  I  am  coming  down  after  you 
then,"  said  her  father. 

"  Yes,  but  at  Thanksgiving  the  leaves 
will  all  have  fallen.  The  woods  will  be 
gray — not  my  woods,  all  in  a  glory  as 
now.  But  then  I  am  going  to  something 
better.  I  am  glad  of  that,  father,"  and 
the  girl  looked  anxiously  into  his  face, 
as  if  sorry  that  she  had  uttered  a  repin 
ing  word. 

"  I  wish  that  you  were  going  to  some 
thing  better,  Rene.  I  haven't  said  any 
thing  about  it  before,  because  I  felt 
that  I  couldn't.  It  is  very  hard  for  me 
to  send  my  Rene  out  into  the  world  to 
earn  her  bread,  instead  of  sending  her 
to  school,  and  giving  her  the  start  in 
life  which  I  always  intended  that  she 
should  have.  But  I  have  done  the  best 
that  I  could,  child.  It  is  not  my  lot  to 
be  lucky." 

There  was  a  pathos  in  the  man's 
voice  and  utterance  which  brought  the 
swift  tears  back  into  Eirene's  eyes. 

"  Oh,  father,  I  didn't  know  that  you 
felt  so  bad  about  my  going  away,"  she 
said,  "  or  I  am  sure  I  would  not  have 
spoken  a  word  about  leaving  the  woods. 
You  know  that  I  want  to  go.  I  am 
young  and  strong ;  why  shouldn't  I  do 
something  ?  After  my  work  is  done,  I 
shall  find  some  time  to  study.  And  if 
Win  and  Pansy  can  be  educated,  it  does 
not  make  so  much  difference  about  me. 

"  Now,  father,  don't  feel  bad  any 
more,  because  there  isn't  any  reason 
why  you  should,"  she  continued,  as 
looking  up  she  saw  that  her  words  had 
failed  to  bring  any  smile  into  the  sor 
rowful  eyes.  "  Father,  mind  me  ;  "  and 
with  an  effort  to  be  playful,  ivhe  took 


the  corner  of  her  shawl  and  wiped  away 
the  solitary  tear  that  was  making  its 
way  down  a  groove  of  the  furrowed 
cheek. 

It  was  only  two  miles  to  the  railroad- 
station,  down-hill  all  the  way.  Eirene 
and  her  father  had  ridden  in  silence 
but  a  little  way,  when  the  most  uninter 
esting  of  all  material  objects,  a  country 
railway-depot,  confronted  them  at  the 
angle  of  two  roads.  It  looked  like  a 
diminutive  barn  painted  a  blackish 
brown.  Inside  it  boasted  of  a  dirty 
floor,  a  spittoon  half  filled  with  saw 
dust,  a  rusty  stove,  a  bleared  looking- 
glass,  two  unsteady  benches,  and  a  hole 
in  the  wall,  in  which  was  set  the  red 
face  of  a  man  waiting  to  sell  tickets. 
Yet  this  depot  was  the  centre  of  attrac 
tion  for  miles  around.  It  was  the  grand 
hall  of  reunion  for  all  the  people  of  the 
scattered  town,  not  second  in  import" 
ance  even  to  the  meeting-house.  Here, 
twice  a-day,  stopped  the  great  Western 
and  Eastern  trains,  the  two  fiery  arte 
ries  through  which  flowed  all  the  tu 
multuous  life  of  the  vast  outer  world 
that  had  ever  come  to  this  secluded 
hamlet.  Its  primitive  inhabitants  in 
their  isolated  farm-houses,  under  the" 
hills  and  on  the  stony  mountain  moors, 
could  never  have  realized  the  existence 
of  another  world  than  the  green,  grand 
world  of  nature  around  them  and  above 
them,  and  would  have  been  as  oblivious 
of  the  great  god  "  News  "  as  the  deni 
zens  of  Greenland,  if  it  had  not  been 
for  the  daily  visits  of  this  Cyclops  with 
the  burning  eye.  Now  twice  a-clay  the 
shriek  of  his  diabolical  whistle  pierced 
the  umbrageous  woods  and  hilly  gorges 
for  miles  away,  and  its  cry  to  many  a 
solitary  household  was  the  epoch  of  the 
day.  Hearing  it,  John  mounted  his  nag 
and  scampered  away  to  the  station  for 
the  Boston  journals  of  yesterday.  Seth 
harnessed  Peggy,  and  drove  off  in  the 
buggy  in  all  possible  haste  to  see  if  the 
mail  had  brought  a  letter  from  Amzi 
who  was  in  New  York,  or  from  Nimrod 
who  had  gone  to  work  in  "  Bosting,"  or 
if  the  train  had  brought  Sally  and  her 
children  from  the  city,  who  were  ex 
pected  home  on  a  visit.  Here,  undei 


A  WOMAN'S  RIGHT. 


pretext  of  waiting  for  the  cars,  congre 
gated  the  drones  and  supernumeraries 
of  the  different  neighborhoods,  loung 
ing  on  the  steps,  hacking  the  benches 
with  their  jack-knives  for  hours  togeth 
er,  while  they  discussed  politics,  and 
talked  over  their  own  and  their  neigh 
bors'  affairs. 

A  walk  to  the  station  on  a  summer 
evening  w»s  more  to  the  boys  and  girls 
of  this  rural  region  than  a  Broadway 
promenade  to  a  metropolitan  belle. 
Their  day's  tasks  done,  here  they  met  in 
pairs,  comparing  finery,  and  indulging  in 
flirtations  with  an  impunity  which 
would  not  have  been  tolerated  by  their 
elders  at  the  Sunday  recess  in  the  meet 
ing-house.  Then,  besides,  it  was  such  an 
exciting  sight  to  see  the  cars  come  in, 
to  see  the  long  rows  of  strange  faces, 
and  to  catch  glimpses  of  the  new  fash 
ions  at  their  open  windows.  Besides, 
at  rare  intervals,  a  real  city-lady  would 
actually  alight  at  the  rustic  station  of 
Hilltop,  followed  by  an  avalanche  of 
trunks,  "  larger  than  hen-houses,"  the 
girls  would  afterward  affirm  to  their  as 
tonished  mothers,  when  it  was  discover 
ed  that  the  city-lady,  in  her  languishing 
necessity  for  country-air,  had  really 
condescended  to  come  in  search  of  a 
remote  country-cousin.  Besides  the  fine 
lady,  sometimes  small  companies  of 
dashing  young  gentlemen,  with  fishing- 
rods  and  retinues  of  long-eared  dogs, 
or  a  long-haired  artist  with  a  portfolio 
under  his  arm,  all  lured  by  the  moun 
tains  and  woods  and  streams  to  seek 
pleasure  in  far  different  ways,  would 
alight  at  the  station  and  inquire  of 
some  staring  rustic  where  they  could 
find  the  hotel. 

The  question  invariably  called  forth 
the  response, 

"  Thar'  ain't  nun' ;  but  Farmer  Smoot 
accommodates." 

The  dog-star,  whose  fiery  rays  sent 
these  pilgrims  of  the  world  to  the  cool 
bosom  of  the  hills,  had  long  set.  It  was 
October  now.  No  one  was  expected. 
But  the  girls  and  boys  of  Hilltop  had 
heard  on  Sunday,  "  at  meeting,"  that 
on  Monday  Eirene  Vale  was  going  down 
'  to  Busyvllle  to  work  in  a  factory,  and 


they  had  come  to  the  station  to  see  her 
off. 

She  stood  in  the  midst  of  a  group, 
her  plain  brown  dress  and  shawl,  her 
dark  straw  bonnet,  with  its  blue  ribbon, 
affording  a  striking  contrast  to  the 
glaring  finery  of  her  companions. 

"  Now,  I  say,  Rene,  if  you  don't  bring 
the  Fashion  Book  when  you  come  hum 
at  Thanksgivin',  you'll  see  what  you'll 
git.  You  know  we've  sech  lots  of  com 
pany  tu  our  house,  I've  got  to  be  dress 
ed,"  said  a  coarse,  red-haired  girl,  who 
rejoiced  in  the  mellifluous  appellation 
of  Serepty  Hepzibah  Smoot. 

"  See  here,  Rene ! "  and  a  tall  girl  witi 
glowing  red  cheeks  and  flaming  black 
eyes  took  her  by  the  arm  and  drew  her 
aside  with  an  air  of  impenetrable  mys 
tery.  "  See  here,  Rene,  and  don't  you 
tell,  for  if  it  gits  out,  mother'll  set  her 
back  agin  it,  and  I  can't  bring  it  round. 
But  I'll  tell  you  what,  if  you  like  it 
down  to  Busyville,  I'm  coming  tu.  I'll 
work  and  board  with  you.  I  know 
thar'  ain't  no  need  on't.  Father's  fore 
handed.  He  sez  I  can  go  tu  school,  but 
I  ain't  goin'.  I  never  could  larn  ;  now 
I'm  eighteen,  I  ain't  goin'  to  try.  I'm 
goin'  to  have  clothes.  Father  don't 
half  dress  me,  so  I'm  goin'  to  work  tu 
earn  'em.  I  ain't  goin'  to  live  and  die 
on  this  old  mountain.  I'm  goin'  whar' 
I  can  see  and  be  seen  !  "  and  the  rustic 
beauty  tossed  her  head  with  a  self-con 
scious  and  defiant  air. 

"  Let  me  speak  !  "  said  a  squeaky 
voice,  in  an  imploring  tone.  "  The 
cars'll  come  and  I  shan't  have  no 
chance  ;  "  and  black-eyed  Nancy  Drake 
made  way  for  Moses  Loplolly,  a  tall, 
lank  youth,  with  a  crotchet  in  his 
shoulders,  yellow  locks,  and  small,  pale 
eyes  of  a  gooseberry  green. 

"  Rene,  here's  a  keepsake  fur  yer  to 
remember  me  by,"  he  said,  thrusting 
into  her  hand  a  small  metallic  cage, 
inside  of  whose  swinging  ring  sat  a 
little  green  parrot,  muffling  its  bill  in 
its  feathers,  and  peering  and  blinking 
with  great  solemnity  from  a  pair  of 
yellow  eyes. 

"  Yer  can't  guess  the  lots  of  time  I've 
spent  a-larnin'  on't,  and  it's  learnt.  Say 


your  lesson,  Polly  :  '  Pretty  Rene.  Poor 
Mo — ,  Poor  Moses  Lop " 

As  it  heard  these  words,  the  bird 
plucked  its  bill  from  out  its  breast, 
nodded  its  head,  winked  on  one  side, 
then  on  the  other,  and  with  a  shrill 
scream  called  out,  "  Say  your  lesson, 
Polly.  Pretty  Rene,  poor  Mo—,  poor 

Moses  Lop ;  "  at  which  utterance 

the  boys  and  girls  of  Hilltop  broke 
forth  into  simultaneous  laughter.  All 
hut  Moses  Loplolly ;  he,  with  a  very  sor 
rowful  visage,  leaned  over  Eirene,  and 
whispered  :  "  When  it  screeches,  you'll 
think  of  me,  won't  yer,  Rene  ?  Yer 
won't  forget  me  'mong  the  scrumptious 
fellers  you'll  see  down  in  Busyville,  will 
yer  ?  You  know  I  never  sot  so  high  by 
nobody  as  I  set  by  you,  Rene  ?  " 

"I  shan't  forget  you,  Moses,"  said 
Eirene.  "  You  have  been  too  kind  to 
Win  and  Pansy,  as  well  as  to  me." 

"  Why  should  I  forget  any  one  be 
cause  I  am  going  to  Busyville  ? "  she 
asked.  "  I  shall  think  of  you  all,  and 
of  the  pleasant  times  that  we  have  had 
together."  This  was  an  exceedingly 
popular  remark.  The  young  Hilltopers 
naturally  wished  to  be  held  in  remem 
brance  by  their  young  companion  amid 
the  splendors  of  Busyville,  and  they 
gathered  closer  around  her  with  part 
ing  injunctions  and  ejaculations. 

"  Wai,  neighbor  Vale,  so  yer  goin'  to 
send  yer  little  gal  out  to  seek  her 
fortin',"  said  red-faced  Farmer  Stave 
to  the  sad-eyed  man  who  stood  leaning 
against  the  door,  gazing  at  his  child. 

"  I  reckon  she  hain't  goin'  far  to  find 
it.  Shouldn't  wonder  if  she'd  be  mer- 
rid  afore  this  time  next  year.  Sech 
eyes  as  hern  warn't  sot  in  no  gal's  head 
for  nothin'.  I  tell  yer  what,  neighbor 
Vale,  they're  mighty  takin',  them  are 
eyes,  leastwise  they'd  be  to  me,  if  I  was 
a  youngster.  'Tween  me  and  you, 
neighbor  Vale,  if  your  little  gal  wasn't 
jest  sech  a  gal  as  she  is,  I  should  say 
it's  tarnal  risky  bus'nis  a-sendin'  on  her 
down  into  the  pomps  and  vanities  and 
tem'tations  of  Busyville,  and  not  a 
blessed  soul  to  look  arter  her  but  her 
self." 

"  Here  they  are,  the  cars  !  you  must 


be  on  the  platform,  or  you'll  get  left," 
exclaimed  a  voice,  and  all  rushed  out 
as  the  shrieking  whistle,  piercing  the 
gorge,  announced  the  arrival  of  Cyclops. 
He  condescended  to  tarry  but  a  moment 
at  the  unimportant  station  of  Hilltop. 
There  was  just  time  for  Eirene's  father 
to  lift  her  upon  the  platform.  In  anoth 
er  moment,  with  her  satchel  in  one  hand, 
and  Moses'  bird-cage  in  the  other,  with 
a  tremulous  "  Good-by,  father,"  and  a 
strangely  palpitating  heart,  Eirene  had 
vanished  through  the  car-door.  In 
another,  the  engine  with  a  scream  and 
a  snort  was  off;  and  in  another  the  long 
train  had  darted  behind  the  sharp  curve 
of  an  aggressive  mountain,  leaving  the 
little  group  upon  the  station-steps  still 
gazing  in  its  wake. 

As  they  turned,  each  instinctively  felt 
that  there  was  nothing  to  be  said  to  the 
silent  man  who  was  slowly  untying  his 
horse  from  a  tree  near  by,  and  who, 
with  a  kind  "  Good-day,  all,"  mounted 
into  his  ancient  vehicle,  and  drove  away 
without  another  word. 

"  Neighbor  Vale  seems  clean  cut  up 
about  his  little  gal's  goiii'  away,"  said 
Farmer  Stave,  looking  after  him  ;  "  and 
I  think  myself,  she  might  as  well  a-staid 
to  hum.  It's  mighty  risky  bus'ness 
a-sendin'  on  such  a  purty  cretur  into 
sech  a  sink-hole  as  Busyville,  and  neigh 
bor  Vale  is  jest  clean  cut  up  about  it. 
It  doesn't  seem  more  nor  a  year  ago, 
sence  me  and  him  sot  eatin'  doughnuts, 
and  noonin'  it,  on  the  meetin'  'us  steps, 
and  the  purty  little  cretur  was  a  sittin' 
in  the  middle  ;  and  neighbor  Vale  was 
a-starin'  at  her.  And  sez  he  :  '  Neigh 
bor  Stave,'  sez  he,  '  this  child  shall  be 
eddicated.  She's  a  destiny  to  fill  in 
the  world,  and  it  haint  triflin'.  I  can 
afford  to  be  of  small  account  if  my 
child  is  eddicated  and  look'd  up  to  in 
the  world.' 

"  I  looked  at  him  so  kind  a-droopin'- 
like,  and  sez  I,  in'ardly,  her  destiny's 
mighty  doubtful  if  it  depends  on  the 
eddication  that  you'll  give  her.  For 
you  all  know,  though  neighbor  Vale 
has  the  best  heart  in  the  world,  he 
haint  a  mite  of  kalkerlation  ;  and  none 
of  the  Vales  never  had,  as  ever  I  heerd 


A  WOMAN'S  RIGHT. 


on.  When  he  thinks  of  what  he  said 
to  me  about  her  eddication  and  sees  her 
when  she  ain't  no  more  than  eighteen, 
goin'  behind  that  screechin'  enjin'  to 
arn  her  bread  and  butter  in  Busyville, 
it  ain't  no  wonder  he's  clean  cut  up." 

"  No,  'tain't  no  wonder,"  chimed  in  a 
crony.  Then  these  two  old  gossips,  with 
the  assistance  of  occasional  data  from 
half-a-dozen  others,  began  to  enumer 
ate  how  many  times  Neighbor  Vale's 
crops  had  failed ;  how  many  mishaps 
had  befallen  him  since  the  beginning 
of  his  career ;  how  large  a  mortgage 
there  was  on  his  farm ;  "  for  nuthin' 
under  the  sun,"  they  said,  "  only  for 
the  want  of  kalkerlation."  "  Yes  1 "  cried 
Farmer  Stave,  bringing  his  heavy  stick 
upon  the  dirty  floor  with  great  em 
phasis,  and  growing  very  red  in  the 
face.  "  There  ain't  no  better  man,  no 
more  feelin'  man  in  the  world  than 
neighbor  Vale,  and  it's  a  thousand  pit 
ies  for  him  and  hisen,  that  he  hain't  a 
mite  of  kalkerlation." 

THE   VALES. 

"  Ef  he'd  only  tuk  to  larnin'  that 
had  a-brought  in  su'then,"  Farmer  Stave 
continued,  "  ef  he'd  only  tuk  to  larnin' 
that  he  could  ha'  turned  to  account, 
there's  the  pint !  He  needn't  be  dig^ 
gin'  in  the  rocks  now,  and  nuthin'  to 
show.  I  tell  ye,  Deacon  Smoot !  " 

"  It's  a  myst'ry  to  me,  with  sech  a 
little  schoolin',  how  he's  picked  up  sech 
a  lot  of  larnin.'  I  tell  ye  thar'  ain't 
nuthin'  from  doctorin'  a  child  all  tuck 
ered  out  with  teethin'  to  narnin'  on  the 
stars,  but  he  knows  suthin'  about  it. 
Wall !  larnin'  doos  wall  enough,  when 
it  brings  in  a  fortin' ;  but  what  the 
deuce's  is  its  vally  if  a  chap's  got  to  be 
a  poor  cuss  all  his  life,  with  a  mortgage 
on  his  farm  ?  I'm  glad  I  alias  was 
back'ard.  I  hain't  had  nuthin'  to  hen- 
der  me  gettin'  forehanded.  Like  enuf, 
if  I'd  tuk  to  larnin'  as  Vale  did,  me  and 
my  folks  might  a-ben  a-livin'  from  hand 
to  mouth  as  well  as  him  and  hisen.  The 
matter  with  him  is,  he  hain't  no  kalker- 
atiou.  But  all  the  Vales  never  had, 
none  as  ever  I  heerd  on ;  they  was  all 
cracked  for  larnin',  that's  my  idee." 


It  is  true,  the  Vales  were  a  cultivated 
and  gifted  race,  long  before  one  of  ite 
sons  brought  his  moderate  temporal 
fortune,  his  elegant  tastes,  and  rich 
mental  possessions  across  the  Atlantic. 
They  were  opulent  in  those  days.  Then 
the  wealth  which  maternal  ancestors 
had  garnered  for  them  (a  Vale  never 
could  have  accumulated  a  fortune)  was 
not  nearly  exhausted. 

Nothing  in  their  necessities  prompt 
ed  them  to  coin  their  large  gifts  into 
gold  for  their  own  uses.  Each  gener 
ation  slipped  away  devoted  to  reli 
gion,  to  science,  and  to  the  aesthetic 
arts,  and  every  son  found  himself  a  lit 
tle  poorer  than  his  father.  At  last  it 
came  to  pass,  upon  a  later  day,  one 
Aubrey  Vale  found  himself,  upon  his 
twenty-fourth  birthday,  an  orphan  ;  his 
only  inheritance  a  University  education, 
a  learned  scroll  (proclaiming  him  to  be 
a  Doctor  of  Medicine),  his  father's  li 
brary,  and  his  father's  spotless  memory. 
With  a  Vale's  abilities,  any  one  but  a 
Vale  would  have  planted  himself  in  a 
flourishing  place ;  there  investing  this 
capital  as  a  sure  guarantee  for  future 
success. 

But  a  Vale  had  never  been  known 
who  knew  how  to  struggle  for  his  own 
fortune  or  his  own  fame.  The  town  of 
his  nativity  was  amply  provided  with 
physicians,  but  Aubrey  Vale  knew  that 
the  not-distant  hamlet  of  Hilltop  did 
not  possess  one  resident  medical  man. 

He  said  :  "  What  a  quiet  spot  for  a 
home !  what  magnificent  scenery  !  Its 
practice  will  afford  me  support,  its  re 
tirement  opportunities  for  study.  If  I 
ever  want  the  world,  I  know  where  to 
find  it." 

But  the  air  of  Hilltop  was  bleak,  too 
bleak  for  Aubrey  Vale,  too  bleak  for 
Alice  Vale,  the  young  wife,  the  tropical 
flower  transplanted  from  a  richer  and  a 
sunnier  soil.  They  never  saw  their  sum 
mer.  It  was  yet  their  spring  when  all 
that  was  left  of  them  mortal  was  laid 
away  in  one  grave  in  the  neglected 
graveyard  of  Hilltop,  a  desolate  place 
half  overgrown  with  blackberry  bushes, 
and  left  open  as  a  pasture  for  cows.  It 
was  many  years  afterward  that  the 


briers  were  torn  away  from  the  else  for 
gotten  grave  by  a  strong  man's  hands, 
and  the  new  turf  planted  with  violets 
and  lilies  of  the  valley  by  the  hands  of 
a  child — a  child  wondrous-eyed,  with 
a  low,  vibrating  voice.  She  was  Eirene 
Vale,  and  the  dark-eyed  man  was  her 
father. 

Lowell  Vale  was  left  an  orphan  when 
but  six  years  old.  After  the  small 
homestead  was  sold,  to  provide  in  part 
means  for  his  support,  nothing  was 
left  the  child  but  the  Vale  library. 
There  were  no  near  kin  to  claim  the  lit 
tle  boy. 

Thus  it  came  to  pass  that  Lowell 
Vale  was  thrown  from  the  track  of  life 
over  which  his  ancestors  had  glided  so 
smoothly  and  gracefully  for  centuries. 

Doubtless  he  had  his  own  niche  in 
the  world  ;  but  as  there  was  no  one  to 
tell  him  what  it  was,  he  never  found  it. 

It  was  a  sad,  sad  childhood  for  a 
child  of  such  a  nature — no  father,  no 
mother ! 

No  one  was  cruel  to  him,  but  who  was 
tenderly  kind  ?  They  would  have  liked 
him  better — those  sturdy  fanner-women 
— if  he  had  borne  a  closer  resemblance 
to  their  own  tow-headed  urchins.  "  Such 
a  queer  cretur,  to  be  sure  !  "  they  said 
to  each  other.  "  So  still  and  mopin'. 
Why  didn't  he  thrash  about  like  Heze- 
kiah  ? "  Thus  he  was  tossed  from  farm 
house  to  farmhouse  till  he  came  to 
man's  estate.  Then  why  did  he  not  fly 
from  this  desert-bondage  ?  you  inquire. 
Oh,  he  could  not ;  he  was  a  Vale. 

The  infirmity  of  his  race  was  in  his 
blood,  its  weakness  in  his  brain.  With 
a  little  more  self-reliance,  a  little  more 
hope,  a  little  surer  faith  in  himself,  only 
a  little  more  of  positive  qualities,  he 
would  have  gone  forth  into  the  world 
where  he  could  have  wrestled  with  uu-n 
for  the  world's  prizes,  and  he  would 
have  won  them.  His  comprehensive 
mind  would  have  compassed  success ; 
his  lack  of  executive  power  made  his 
life  a  failure. 

Here  was  a  Vale  at  last,  who,  with 
the  lack  of  business  qualifications  which 
marked  his  family,  had  been  denied  the 
liberal  culture  which  had  helped  many 


of  them  to  eminence  in  the  professions. 
He  bought  a  little  rock-bound,  rock 
sown  farm,  and  his  life  shrank  into  one 
hopeless  effort  to  wring  from  the  stony 
soil  gold  enough  to  make  this  sterile 
piece  of  earth  his  own  and  his  chil 
dren's.  To  fail  even  in  this,  what  a  fate 
for  a  Vale ! 

When  Lowell  Vale  said  to  Eirene,  "  I 
have  done  the  best  that  I  could.  It  is 
not  my  lot  to  be  lucky,"  he  told  the 
whole  story  of  his  life.  We  see  many 
men  who  never  learn  to  fit  their  natures 
to  the  groove  of  life  in  which  they  find 
themselves.  At  Hilltop  life  had  gath 
ered  itself  into  one  narrow  channel  for 
generations.  Here  human  nature  had 
repeated  itself  in  one  phase  for  centuries. 
The  railway  cut  its  first  path  out  to  the 
great  world.  Cyclops  was  the  first 
screaming  herald  of  progress,  the  first 
innovator  upon  the  unutterable  dulness 
of  Hilltop. 

Yet  even  now  the  topics  of  conversa 
tion  were  very  scanty ;  its  people  had 
little  to  talk  about  but  each  other.  One 
variety  in  the  genus  homo  made  an  in 
exhaustible  theme ;  thus  it  happened 
that  Lowell  Vale  and  his  affairs  were 
more  talked  of  than  of  all  others  put 
together.  It  was  of  no  account  to  these 
sturdy  yeomen  that  his  organization 
was  more  delicate,  his  instincts  finer,  hia 
aspirations  higher,  while  his  house  re 
mained  smaller,  his  stock  poorer,  and 
his  crops  scantier  than  their  own. 

Of  these  spiritual  facts  they  were 
very  dimly  conscious ;  but  the  material 
ones  stood  with  painful  palpability  be 
fore  their  scrutinizing  eyes.  They  be 
held  them,  to  gaze  with  ever-renewed 
complacency  upon  their  own  posses 
sions,  and  to  exclaim  for  the  ten  thou 
sandth  time,  with  pharisaical  commis 
eration  :  "  Poor  neighbor  Vale !  a  bet 
ter  critter  never  lived,  nor  none  more 
feelin',  and  it's  a  thousand  pities  for 
him  and  hisen  that  he  hain't  a  mite  of 
kalkerlation." 

LEFT. 

The  unfortunate  object  of  all  thig 
mingled  criticism,  commiseration,  and 
good-will,  slowly  urged  Muggins  up 
the  mountain-road,  through  the  for- 


A  WOMAN'S  EIGHT. 


est,  under  the  scarlet  rain  of  leaves, 
just  as  he  did  an  hour  before  when 
Eirene  sat  by  his  side.  No,  not  just  as 
he  did  then.  He  was  alone  now.  He 
had  never  felt  so  alone  in  all  his  life 
before.  In  spite  of  himself,  he  felt  as 
if  he  had  lost  his  child. 

"  And  yet,"  he  reasoned,  "  she  has 
only  gone  to  Busyville.  I  can  drive 
down  there  after  her  any  day.  It  is 
only  twenty  miles  away."  The  fact  that 
she  was  there  did  not  seem  in  itself 
sufficient  to  fill  hi  in  with  such  a  sense 
of  loss.  For  eighteen  years  his  meagre 
life  had  absorbed  grace  and  beauty, 
poetry  and  love,  from  this  child.  But 
never  until  now  had  he  realized  that 
she  was  the  very  soul  of  his  soul ;  that 
to  him  the  very  light  of  the  world  had 
gone  away  with  her  eyes. 

As  he  emerged  from  the  forest-road 
and  saw  his  home  before  him,  he  thought 
that  he  had  never  seen  it  look  forsaken 
and  desolate  before. 

He  remembered  that  all  the  fine  houses 
in  Busyville  had  failed  to  disgust  him 
with  this  lowly  abode ;  that  it  never 
turned  such  an  inviting  face  toward  him 
as  when  he  returned  from  that  hand 
some  but  commonplace  village.  With 
a  thrill  of  joy  he  had  always  caught 
the  first  glimpse  of  its  dormer  win 
dows,  of .  its  low  roof,  of  its  brown 
walls.  He  could  see  nothing  which  fill 
ed  him  with  such  positive  delight  as 
the  sight  of  those  trees  and  flowers  and 
vines  planted  by  his  own  hands.  Then 
all  his  loved  ones  awaited  his  return 
within  this  home.  Now  for  the  first 
time  one  was  wanting,  and  for  the  first 
time  the  little  house  looked  dreary. 
This  look  must  have  been  the  reflec 
tion  of  his  OWH  feelings ;  for  any  travel 
ler  would  have  said  at  this  moment, 
that  in  all  the  scattered  town  of  Hilltop 
there  was  not  another  abode  so  lowly 
and  yet  so  homelike  in  its  aspect.  A 
painter  would  have  seen  before  .him  a 
picture  of  such  brilliant  autumn  beauty 
that  he  would  have  longed  to  transfix 
it  on  canvas  forever. 

Everywhere*the  red  maples  had  cast 
down  their  scarlet  leaves,  now  lying  in 
glowing  drifts  in  the  hollows  of  the 


roads.  The  yellow  maples  ripening 
slowly  in  the  soft  shelter  cf  the  hills, 
still  fluttered  their  green  skirts  edged 
here  and  there  with  gold ;  while  others, 
standing  in  the  crisp  air  of  some  open 
space,  spread  out  their  tremulous  pano 
plies  of  unbroken  amber. 

The  old  vines,  which  festooned  the 
gables  and  dormer  windows  of  the  cot 
tage,  hung  in  vivid  relief  beside  the 
dark  green  of  the  dappled  English  ivy — 
an  ivy  sprung  from  the  immemorial  vine 
which  an  elder  Vale  had  brought  across 
the  seas  and  planted  ;  a  souvenir  amid 
the  rocks  of  New  England  of  his  old 
English  home. 

The  Swiss  larches  which  Eirene's 
father  planted  when  she  was  a  baby 
waved  their  green  plumes  above  the 
russet  grass  in  the  yard  before  the  house, 
while  on  each  side  of  the  path  stood 
the  sturdy  autumn  flowers  which  had 
defied  the  early  frosts.  A  few  mari 
golds  still  flaunted  their  brazen  splen 
dor,  here  and  there  a  garnet  dahlia 
looked  down  from  its  blackened  stalk, 
and,  each  side  of  the  porch,  beds  of 
crysanthemums  brightened  the  air  with 
their  delicate  bloom.  On  one  side,  the 
meadow  sloped  down  to  a  narrow 
river  running  swiftly  away  from  the  far 
mountains  in  its  rear ;  on  the  other, 
the  little  farm  stretched  away  to  the 
woods  that  crowned  the  hill.  Before  it, 
far  below,  spread  a  lovely  valley,  while 
beyond  it,  another  chain  of  purple 
mountains  bound  the  horizon. 

For  the  first  time  in  his  life,  Lowell 
Yale  was  blind  to  the  beauty  of  the 
world  around  his  home ;  he  thought 
only  of  the  little  group  about  its  hearth, 
and  that  one  was  wanting. 

Win  and  Pansy  heard  the  wagon- 
wheels,  and  ran  out  to  meet  their  father, 
their  eyes  still  swollen  with  weeping ; 
and  as  if  to  console  themselves,  began 
to  quarrel  as  to  who  should  drive 
Muggins  into  the  barn.  Pansy  ended 
the  discussion  as  her  father  alighted, 
by  scrambling  up  one  of  the  wheels, 
and  quickly  seizing  the  reins,  which 
feat  being  accomplished,  she  turned  to 
her  amazed  brother  with  an  indescriba 
bly  triumphant  air,  and  exclaimed  : 


EIREMK : 


"There,  Mister  Win,  who'll  drive 
now  ? " 

He  sprang  forward  as  if  to  seize  the 
bridle,  but  Pansy's  sudden  pull  of  the 
reins  sent  Muggins  off  at  a  frantic  gal 
lop  toward  the  barn — a  gallop  which 
proved  that  Muggins  was  a  susceptible 
animal  in  spite  of  appearances ;  that 
she  thrilled  to  her  very  shoes  with  the 
nervous,  wilful  pull  of  Miss  Pansy,  al 
though  no  amount  of  mild  orthodox 
jerks  could  ever  induce  her  to  "get  up." 

"  For  shame  on  a  girl  driving  a  horse ! 
I  wouldn't  stoop  to  quarrel  with  a  girl 
anyhow  !  "  cried  the  discomfited  Win. 

A  moment  after,  he  saw  Muggins  in 
her  unprecedented  momentum  not  only 
knock  the  buggy-shafts  and  her  own 
nose  against  the  door  of  the  barn,  but 
toss  the  triumphant  Pansy  from  her  seat 
against  the  front  of  the  vehicle  ;  seeing 
which  sight,  this  young  man  of  four 
teen  turned  and  walked  slowly  away 
with  a  lofty,  injured,  yet  satisfied  air. 

Nevertheless,  the  moment  he  reached 
the  house,  he  quickened  his  steps,  and 
exclaimed :  "  Oh,  father,  I'm  afraid 
Pansy  is  hurt !  Won't  you  go  and 
see  ?  " — an  act  which  he  very  much 
desired  to  perform  himself,  only  his 
pride  and  sense  of  injury  would  not  let 
him. 

At  supper,  Pansy  had  a  black  eye,  and 
her  pretty  nose  was  very  much  swelled. 
But  little  Win  looked  away  from  her 
with  a  severe,  offended  air.  He  was  too 
magnanimous  to  say  that  he  was  glad, 
yet  altogether  too  angry  to  say  that  he 
was  sorry. 

Pansy's  nose  ached,  so  did  her  heart. 
She  had  a  confused  feeling  that  she  had 
already  forfeited  the  blue  frock,  and 
that  every  thing  was  going  wrong.  The 
peacemaker  who  had  always  poured  oil 
on  their  naughty  tempers  was  gone ; 
her  seat  between  the  scowling  brother 
and  sister  was  empty. 

The  most  eventful  day  that  ever 
comes  to  a  New  England  household 
had  come  to  the  lowly  home  of  the 
Vales. 

The  first  child  had  gone  out  from  its 
shelter  into  the  world.  Sooner  or  later 
this  day  comes  to  every  country  New 


England  home  :  its  sons  and  daughters 
must  go  forth  to  be  educated,  or  to 
work.  The  secluded  farm,  the  scatter 
ed  town,  afford  scanty  advantages  and 
few  employments.  Thus  the  girls  and 
boys  must  go  elsewhere  to  work  in  shops, 
to  study  in  college,  to  teach  school ;  and 
to  those  who  are  left,  home  never  seems 
quite  the  same  that  it  did  before  they 
went  away. 

It  was  a  sore  trial  to  this  father  and 
mother  to  know  that  their  young  child 
had  gone,  not  to  the  Busyville  Academy, 
but  to  the  Busyville  factory  ;  that  from 
morning  till  night  she  was  to  be  shut 
up  to  work  in  a  close  shop,  with  little 
choice  of  associates,  and  with  none  of 
the  amusement  and  interest  so  indis 
pensable  to  the  young.  But  the  poor, 
who  have  never  learned  the  trick  of 
making  life  easy  for  themselves,  can 
hardly  do  more  for  their  children. 

Eirene  had  gone ;  what  was  left  for 
them  now  but  resignation  ? 

Pansy's  little  purple  nose  was  bathed 
in  camphor,  and  she  had  mounted  the 
confessional  of  her  mother's  knee,  there 
to  confess  her  sins  and  say  her  prayers 
before  going  to  bed.  She  was  very 
penitent  at  first. 

She  had  been  naughty,  she  said  ;  she 
was  sorry,  and  would  be  good  to-mor 
row. 

Suddenly  another  mood  swept  over 
her.  She  wouldn't  have  been  naughty 
if  it  hadn't  been  for  Win.  Mister  Win 
needn't  think  that  Tie  was  always  going 
to  drive  Muggins,  and  leave  her  stand 
ing  on  the  ground.  Her  head  ached, 
her  nose  was  sore — "  it  was  Muggins 
who  was  wicked  to  bump  her  against 
the  barn  there  !  ".  Thus,  with  a  passion 
ate  sob,  the  penitent  suddenly  passed 
into  a  severely  abused  child  bewailing 
its  grievances  without  stint.  She  re 
fused  to  be  soothed,  till  at  last  hei 
mother  said : 

"  What  would  Rene  say  to  see  Pansy 
so  angry  with  Win  ?  How  sorry  it 
would  make  her  !  " 

These  words  were  magical.  Pansy 
saw  as  in  a  vision  the  receding  outline 
of-  a  sky-blue  frock,  and  the  eyes  of  her 
sister  full  of  tears. 


A  WOMAN'S  EIGHT. 


Thus  together  love  and  selfishness 
triumphed ;  so  early  does  the  mingled 
essence  of  good  and  evil  enter  into 
human  motive. 

Pansy  suddenly  wiped  her  eyes,  threw 
her  arms  around  her  mother's  neck,  and 
•whispered, 

"  I  am  sorry  that  I  was  naughty." 

Then  the  little  sinner  in  the  round 
night-cap  and  long  night-gown  march 
ed  off"  to  bed. 

At  family  prayers  that  night,  Lowell 
Vale  for  the  first  time  prayed  for  the 
absent.  As  he  prayed  the  Good  Shepherd 
still  to  hold  in  his  keeping  the  beloved 
lamb  that  they  had  sent  out  from  the 
fold,  his  voice  trembled,  and  at  last 
broke. 

Mary  Vale  was  very  quiet  in  her 
grief.  All  her  life  she  had  been  relin 
quishing  desire ;  not  so  much  desire 
for  that  which  she  had  lost,  as  for  that 
which  she  had  missed.  It  was  a  gift 
conferred  upon  her,  this  power  of  self- 
renunciation.  She  had  not  been  always 
thus  ;  her  soul  had  been  eager  and  im 
portunate  once.  Then  it  had  seemed 
to  her  that  she  must  beat  her  way  out 
of  the  restricted  sphere  in  which  she 
was  born. 

The  life  which  she  read  of  in  books 
she  was  very  sure  was  only  the  faint 
reflection  of  a  richer  life  to  be  found 
somewhere  in  the  world.  It  was  very 
different  from  the  life  of  Hilltop ;  to 
her  she  was  certain  it  would  be  more 
satisfying.  There  were  books  and  pic 
tures  and  music  in  this  life.  There 
were  gay  cities,  cathedrals,  and  resonant 
organs ;  all  the  wonderful  sights  of 
strange  lands,  rivers,  and  oceans  that 
she  had  never  seen  !  There  was  wealth 
and  leisure  and  beauty  in  the  world ; 
why  might  she  not  have  something  of 
it  all  in  her  portion  ? 

Had  she  married  an  ambitious  and 
successful  man,  he  could  have  conferred 
•upon  her  no  honor  that  she  would  not 
have  grown  to  adorn.  As  it  was,  be 
fore  her  youth  had  passed,  Mary  Vale 
knew  that  this  life  which  she  saw  in 
dreams  would  never  become  real  in  her 
earthly  lot.  It  was  a  natural  transition 
wken  her  hopeless  longing,  turned  from 


the  delights  of  earth,  which  she  knew 
could  never  be  hers,  to  the  joys  of  the 
heaven  which  she  felt  sure  would  one 
day  be  her  portion.  It  was  such  hap 
piness  to  know  that  she  could  imagine 
nothing  of  this  unseen  world  that  would 
transcend  the  reality.  She  could  afford 
to  live  in  a  poor  house  here,  and  even 
have  a  mortgage  upon  that,  while  she 
felt  certain  that  after  a  little  while  she 
would  enter  into  a  building  of  God,  a 
house  not  made  with  hands,  eternal,  ' 
and  in  the  heavens. 

She  loved  to  read  over  to  her  chil 
dren  its  description  in  Revelations,  all 
glowing  with  gems.  And  when  she  had 
ended  the  inspired  story,  she  would 
turn  to  her  husband  with  softly  dilat 
ing  eyes,  and  say  :  "  My  dear,  the  heirs 
of  such  an  inheritance  can  afford  to 
wait."  "  Father  !  "  This  one  word 
comprehended  her  entire  idea  of  God. 
To  her  He  was  a  tender,  an  all-pervad 
ing,  ever-guarding  Presence.  Every  one 
of  His  promises  she  seized  with  child 
like  trust.  He  might  deny  her,  might 
bereave  her,  yet  she  never  doubted  His 
love.  Every  morning  she  prayed  for 
His  strength  to  bear  the  cross  of  that 
day  ;  every  night  she  laid  it  down  at 
the  feet  of  her  Lord  with  tearful  thanks 
that  the  burden  had  been  so  light. 
There  was  no  object  on  earth  dearer  to 
her  than  her  first-born  child.  To-day 
she  had  relinquished  her  without  one 
repining  word.  Yet  what  a  different 
lot  she  would  have  chosen  for  her,  had 
it  been  possible.  A  few  tears  dropped 
upon  her  pillow  ere  she  slept.  Then 
the  lids  drooped  over  the  soft  eyes,  and 
with  a  tender  smile  she  passed  out  into 
the  limitless  realm  of  dreams,  this 
mother,  to  walk  hand  in  hand  with  her 
child. 

Lowell  Vale  waited  till  she  slept, 
then  taking  the  candle  from  the  stand 
beside  which  he  had  apparently  been 
reading,  he  walked  quietly  up-stairs  to 
Eirene's  room. 

If  a  room  can  reflect  the  character  of 
its  occupant,  how  pure  must  have  been 
the  nature  of  this  child.  The  windows 
of  the  little  dormer  chamber  faced  the 
east,  looking  out  upon  the  valley  with 


10 


EIKENE : 


its  ribbon-like  river,  and  the  great 
mountains  which  girded  the  sky.  They 
were  draped  with  white,  and  between 
them  stood  the  white  toilet  which 
Eirene's  own  hands  had  fashioned. 
Over  it  hung  a  little  mirror  festooned 
with  golden  tissue-paper,  falling  like 
flakes  of  flame  against  the  pale-blue 
walls. 

At  one  end  of  the  room,  commanding 
the  view  from  the  windows,  stood  Ei 
rene's  table.  This,  too,  was  covered  with 
white,  and  on  it  still  stood  her  work- 
basket  and  a  glass  filled  with  pink  and 
white  crysanthemums.  Over  it  hung  a 
swinging  bookcase  filled  with  relics  of 
the  Vale  library. 

Here  were  Shakespeare  and  Milton  and 
old  George  Herbert  in  antique  bind 
ings,  stained  and  worn  by  time.  Here 
were  Rollin  and  Gibbon,  and  volumes 
of  the  Spectator  and  Rambler.  Thomas 
a  Kempis,  Jeremy  Taylor,  and  holy 
old  Baxter  stood  on  the  same  shelf  with 
Byron  and  Burns.  Ivanhoe  and  Old  Mor 
tality,  with  other  of  Scott's  magic  crea 
tions  were  the  only  novels ;  but  there 
was  a  shelf  filled  with  old  Latin  books 
which  Eirene  had  always  treasured  as 
if  they  were  gold,  because  they  looked 
so  wise ;  and  another  filled  with  French 
books,  which  the  child  had  studied 
many  a  night  when  all  in  the  h  m-e 
were  sleeping.  Under  the  bookcase 
where  the  sweet  face  always  looked 
into  hers  as  she  sat  there,  Eirene  had 
hung  an  engraving  of  St.  Elizabeth  of 
Hungary  in  a  frame  of  dark  wood 
which  her  father  had  made  for  her. 
How  well  he  remembered  her  look,  and 
the  kiss  that  she  gave  him,  when  she 
took  it  from  his  hands,  that  frame  so 
deftly  fashioned,  so  fit  a  setting  for  her 
treasure. 

Over  the  mantel  opposite  hung  the 
portrait  of  a  young  and  most  lovely 
woman.  The  beauty  of  this  face  was 
not  of  mere  tint  and  outline,  although 
both  seemed  faultless.  It  was  not  ruddy 
and  rustic,  but  a  high-born  face,  with 
the  exquisite  profile  which  we  see  cut 
in  antique  gems.  But  what  were  this 
to  the  soft  splendor  of  the  half-veiled 
eyes,  and  the  tender  smile  brooding  in 


the  curves  of  the  gentle  mouth  !  It  was 
a  mouth  to  which  childish  lips  would 
turn  and  cling  in  the  loving  innocence 
of  infancy.  And  the  rippling  hair  of 
nutty  brown  just  touched  with  gold, — 
how  a  child's  hand  would  love  to  lose 
itself  in  its  silken  luxuriousness  ! 

It  was  the  face  of  a  woman  that  no 
manly  man  could  behold  without  love ; 
of  a  woman  for  whose  sake  such  a  man 
would  live  and  die,  nor  desire  a  hap 
pier  destiny.  It  was  the  face  of  one  in 
the  first  lustrum  of  womanhood,  else  it 
might  well  have  been  taken  for  the 
portrait  of  Eirene  Vale. 

It  was  the  portrait  of  Eirene's  grand 
mother.  How  unlike  the  other  grand 
mothers  of  Hilltop,  sitting  in  their 
mouldy  frames  in  high  caps,  sausage 
curls,  and  bagpipe  sleeves,  was  this 
tutelary  saint  who  passed  from  the 
world  in  the  undimmed  lustre  of  her 
youth !  The  image  of  Alice  Vale  was 
repeated  in  her  grandchild.  Perhaps 
this  was  one  reason  why  the  heart  of 
Lowell  Vale  seemed  bound  by  so  close 
a  tie  to  his  first-born  child — that  her 
face  recalled  in  vivid  reality  the  living 
face  of  the  young  mother  so  dimly 
remembered. 

Lowell  Vale,  with  the  light  in  his 
hand,  walked  slowly  around  the  room, 
pausing  before  every  object,  each  one 
in  his  eyes  sacred  for  the  sake  of  his 
child.  • 

Every  thing  was  left  as  if  she  had 
gone  out  for  an  hour,  and  might  return 
any  moment.  There  was  the  unfinished 
work  in  her  basket,  the  glass  filled  with 
flowers,  the  last  book  that  she  had  read 
with  the  mark  in  it  as  she  had  laid  it 
down  on  the  table ;  the  low  chair  where 
she  had  sat. 

Lowell  Vale  looked  long,  looked 
with  a  sigh  that  swelled  almost  to  a 
groan,  as  he  turned  to  the  low  cot  with 
its  white  counterpane  and  untouched 
pillow.  Since  he  first  laid  her  down 
there  himself,  a  tiny  child,  fourteen 
years  before,  when  Win  was  born,  this 
was  the  first  night  that  the  cot  had 
been  empty,  and  the  fair  child-head 
sheltered  by  the  roof  of  strangers. 

He  knelt  down,  buried  his  face  in 


A  WOMAN'S  RIGHT. 


n 


her  pillow,  and  did  what  the  strongest 
and  weakest  of  mortals  are  almost  sure 
to  do  in  their  moments  of  extremity. 
This  father,  who  felt  that  it  was  beyond 
his  faltering  power  to  take  care  of  her 
himself,  again  committed  his  child  to 
the  care  of  God. 


THE    OIRL   CP-STAIR8. 


While  her  father  knelt  beside  her  pil 
low  at  home,  Eirene  sat  alone  in  her 
new  room  at  Busyville.  She  sat  like 
one  in  a  daze,  as  if  stunned  by  the 
strangeness  of  her  surroundings.  Her 
eyes  were  fixed  upon  Moses  Loplolly's 
little  parrot,  now  fast  asleep  on  its 
perch ;  yet  she  did  not  see  the  bird  nor 
the  hard,  bare  outline  of  the  new  room. 
No,  she  saw  her  own  little  chamber 
•with  its  azure  walls  ;  saw  her  own  little 
bed ;  saw  her  father  kneeling  by  its 
side ;  then  again  the  soft  eyes  swam  in 
tears,  and  she  started  as  if  she  had  just 
wakened  from  a  vision. 

"  Father,"  she  murmured,  stretching 
out  her  arms  as  if  to  enfold  him.  "  Dear 
father,  for  your  sake,  and  for  yours,  dear 
mother,  I  will  be  brave  and  patient  and 
hopeful." 

She  felt  strangely  alone.  Surely  that 
angular  little  room  could  never  seem 
home-like  to  her ;  it  was  so  cold  and 
cheerless.  Its  very  atmosphere  was  re 
pelling.  Its  bare  walls  were  covered 
with  coarse  whitewash ;  its  one  window 
covered  with  a  stiff  paper  curtain  ;  its 
floor  was  painted  a  bright  yellow ;  its 
furniture  consisted  of  a  very  diminutive 
looking-glass,  a  pine  washstand  on  which 
stood  a  tin  basin,  a  straight-backed 
wooden  chair,  and  a  bed  covered  with  a 
glaring  patchwork-quilt.  As  Eirene's 
eyes  wandered  over  these  meagre  ap 
pliances,  she  started,  for  the  first  time 
remembering  the  words  of  a  metallic 
voice,  uttered  while  the  door  was  clos 
ing  upon  her  for  the  night : 

"  Remember,  we  breakfast  at  six.  We 
never  wait.  You  are  to  be  in  the  shop 
by  seven  o'clock." 

Eirene  took  from  her  head  the  silken 
net  which  covered  her  hair,  and  as  she 
shook  and  brushed  out  its  waving 
length,  repeated  to  herself  the  Bible 


verse  which  her  mother  had  marked  for 
her  in  the  morning. 

The  young  head  touched  the  strange 
pillow,  and  the  young  lips  murmured 
as  they  had  murmured  from  infancy  : 

"  Now  I  lay  me  down  to  sleep, 
I  pray  the  Lord  my  soul  to  keep." 

Thus,  and  with  a  prayer  in  her  heart 
for  each  beloved  one  at  home,  the  young 
eyes  closed  in  innocent  sleep. 

But  thpre  was  somebody  very  wide 
awake  down-stairs.  This  somebody  sat 
in  a  large  family-room,  a  commodious 
room  which  reflected  the  competence 
and  the  thrifty  housekeeping  of  its 
owner. 

Yes,  it  was  a  very  comfortable  room, 
although  not  a  single  picture,  not  one 
artistic  touch,  suggested  a  love  for  the 
beautiful  in  the  one  who  had  furnished 
it.  The  walls  were  hung  with  yellow 
paper ;  the  windows  were  covered  with 
yellow  shades.  The  great  lounge  and 
stiff-backed  rocking-chair  were  covered 
with  chintz  of  large  device,  and  glar 
ing  hue. 

The  floor  was  covered  with  that  home 
made  carpet  indigenous  to  New  Eng 
land,  which  is  never  seen  in  perfection 
out  of  it — a  carpet  in  which  stripes  of 
violent  yellow,  red,  and  green  run  side 
by  side  in  acute  lines  till  they  cover  the 
floor. 

The  slumbering  fire  of  an  autumn 
night  dwindled  upon,  the  hearth.  Be 
fore  it  stood  a  large  table,  on  which 
was  a  shaded  lamp  and  a  work-basket 
piled  high  with  work.  On  each  side 
sat  a  man  and  woman,  with  a  cradle 
between  them,  in  which  a  baby  slept. 
The  woman  slowly  moved  the  cradle 
with  her  foot,  while  her  busy  hand  plied 
the  needle  in  and  out  through  the  heel 
of  a  stocking,  which  had  been  mended 
till  not  even  imagination  could  conjec 
ture  which  had  been  its  original  yarn. 
This  woman  had  restless,  eager  eyes ; 
greedy  eyes  yoti  would  have  called 
them,  had  you  looked  into  them  closely. 
They  had  a  taking-in  look,  as  if  they 
had  grown  hungry  gloating  over  objects 
of  desire  and  of  possession. 

Yet  they  were  handsome  eyes,  and  in 
certain  moods  could  suffuse  with  tears 


13 


EIP.ENE: 


of  motherly  feeling.  The  watery  ten 
dency  of  these  handsome  eyes  had  won 
a  popular  reputation  for  their  owner 
among  the  matrons  of  Busyville.  "  There 
never  was  a  more  feeling  woman  than 
Tabitha  Mallane,''  they  would  say. 
"  Such  a  capable  woman  !  What  a 
family  she  has,  and  how  she  has  brought 
them  up.  What  a  mother  she  is,  to  be 
sure  !  "  Her  face  was  deeply  care-lined. 
Every  motion  indicated  disquietude,  as 
if  in  all  her  anxious,  workful  life  she 
had  never  earned  the  right  to  Heaven's 
own  boon — repose. 

It  was  not  thus  with  her  husband. 
Time  and  care  had  furrowed  his  face 
also ;  but  in  its  intellectual  lines,  so 
much  more  intellectual  than  his  wife's, 
you  could  trace  the  capacity  for  rest  as 
well  as  for  work ;  and  now  with  a  re 
mote  look  in  his  eyes  he  was  buried  in 
the  oblivion  of  his  newspaper. 

Perhaps  his  wife  was  more  restless 
than  usual.  She  gave  a  spasmodic  rock 
to  the  cradle,  she  moved  her  chair,  she 
pushed  the  lamp,  she  pulled  her  needle 
with  such  violence  through  the  stocking 
that  the  yarn  broke.  From  time  to  time 
she  looked  round  the  side  of  the  news 
paper  into  the  face  of  her  quiet  husband 
with  an  expression  of  positive  annoy 
ance.  At  last  the  silence  became  unen 
durable.  Again  she  jerked  the  cradle, 
pushed  the  lamp,  and  in  a  peremptory 
tone  said : 

"  Father ! " 

No  reply  issued  from  the  voluminous 
depths  of  the  Boston  Journal.  Mr. 
Mallane  was  absorbed  with  the  affairs 
of  his  country. 

"  Father ! » 

This  time  the  endearing  appellation 
was  uttered  in  such  a  keen  tone  of  acer 
bity,  that  it  penetrated  the  thick*  rime 
of  national  affairs. 

Mr.  Mallane  slowly  laid  down  his 
paper,  slowly  took  his  spectacles  from 
his  eyes,  slowly  took  his  silk  handker 
chief  from  his  pocket,  slowly  wiped  his 
glasses,  and  as  slowly  said  : 

"  Well,  mother  ?  " 

"  I  should  think  that  you  would  say 
'  Well,  mother  1 '  Where  are  your  eyes, 
Mr.  Mallane  ? " 


"  In  my  head,  I  believe,  Tabitha." 

"  You  know  what  I  mean  !  Are  you 
crazy,  John  Mallane  ?  " 

"  No.     I  am  perfectly  sane,  Tabitha." 

"  No,  you  are  not.  You  are  either 
blind  or  crazy ;  or  you  never  would 
have  brought  that  girl  up-stairs  into 
this  house." 

"  Why  not  ?  She  is  a  very  pretty 
girl,  mother.  I  should  think  that  you 
would  like  to  have  her  in  the  house  for 
the  sake  of  the  children." 

"  For  the  sake  of  the  children  !  Why 
do  you  aggravate  me,  John  Mallane  ? 
Isn't  Paul  coming  home  in  a  week  ? 
Hasn't  Paul  eyes  in  his  head  ?  " 

"  Yes,  Paul  has  eyes  in  his  head,  very 
handsome  eyes,  too ;  just  such  eyes  as 
yours  used  to  be,  Tabitha,  before  you 
/began  to  worry  ;  and  he  knows  how  to 
use  them,  too,"  said  Mr.  Mallane ;  and 
a  smile  of  parental  pride  passed  over 
his  face  as  he  spoke  of  his  first-born  son. 

"  I'll  tell  you  how  he'll  use  them, 
John  Mallane  ;  "  and  in  her  eagerness 
the  mother  leaned  forward  with  dis 
tended  eyes  and  ominous  voice  : 

"  He'll  use  them  the  very  first  thing 
to  fall  in  love  with  that  girl  up-stairs. 
If  there's  no  running  away  and  getting 
married,  and  all  that,  it  will  be  a  pretty 
story  to  go  about  town,  that  Paul  Mal 
lane  has  fallen  in  love  with  one  of  his 
father's  shop-girls.  I  warn  you,  John 
Mallane." 

"  Tabitha,  why  will  you  always  bor 
row  trouble  ?  As  you  say,  Paul  has 
eyes  in  his  head.  He  will  see  that  the 
girl  is  pretty.  He  can't  help  that.  But 
Paul  has  common  sense.  Paul  is  long 
headed  ;  he  has  any  amount  of  fore 
sight.  He  is  just  as  ambitious  for  wealth 
and  for  position  as  you  are.  He  is  the 
last  fellow  on  earth  to  make  a  fool  of 
himself  by  running  off  with  a  poor 
shop-girl.  And  I  don't  see  that  he  ig 
very  much  inclined  to  fall  in  love  with 
any  body.  Here  he  has  been  flirting  a 
whole  year  with  Tilly  Blane,  the  pret 
tiest  and  the  richest  girl  in  town.  She 
would  like  to  have  him  fall  in  love  with 
her ;  but  he  hasn't.  And  she  is  pretty, 
and  I  don't  know  but  prettier  than  the 
girl  up-stairs." 


A  WOMAN'S  RIGHT. 


13 


"  Yes,  she  is  prettier,  perhaps,"  an 
swered  the  mother,  dubiously.  "  But  it 
is  only  flesh  and  blood  pretty,  pink 
cheeks,  blue  eyes,  curly  hair.  At  thirty 
she  will  be  as  ugly  as  her  mother,  who, 
you  know,  twenty-five  years  ago  was  the 
belle  of  Busyville.  But  this  girl  up 
stairs  has  an  uncommon  face.  Didn't 
you  notice  it,  father  ?  "Why,  with  that 
expression  on  it,  she  will  be  beautiful 
at  fifty.  When  those  great  brown  eyes 
look  up  through  those  long  lashes,  there 
is  a  look  in  them  that  would  take  the 
heart  out  of  any  young  man,  and  they'll 
take  the  heart  out  of  our  Paul.  And 
she'll  turn  them  up,  and  cast  them 
down.  She'll  make  good  use  of  those 
eyes,  the  artful " 

"  Be  reasonable,  be  reasonable,  Tabi- 
tha.  Don't  call  the  poor  child  names  ; 
for  she's  only  a  child,  and  whatever  arts 
she  may  learn,  she  hasn't  learned  them 
yet.  You  could  see  that  at  supper.  She 
felt  so  strange  and  frightened,  she  could 
scarcely  eat.  She  has  never  been  away 
from  home  before.  Let  us  show  her  the 
same  kindness  that  we  would  like  shown 
to  our  Grace  if  we  had  to  send  her 
away  to  earn  her  bread." 

"  Show  her  kindness  ?  The  greatest 
kindness  that  we  can  show  her,  is  to 
send  her  out  of  this  house.  It  is  no 
place  for  her.  I  cannot  have  her  here. 
I  will  not  have  her  here.  She  shall  go 
to-morrow.  I  have  set  my  foot  down, 
John  Mallane." 

"  She  shall  not  go  to-morrow,"  said 
Mr.  Mallane,  quietly,  but  in  a  tone 
which  could  not  be  contradicted.  It 
usually  happened  that  when  Tabitha 
Mallane  "  set  her  foot  down,"  John 
Mallane  set  his  down  also. 

Coolly  and  quietly  he  asserted  his 
will ;  but  having  once  asserted  it,  it 
was  as  fixed  as  a  rock.  His  wife's  tem 
per,  like  a  stormy  wave,  chafed  and 
fretted  in  helpless  anger  against  the 
immovable  mountain  of  will.  Poor 
wave  !  it  soon  beat  itself  weary.  Baffled, 
worn-out,  it  always  subsided  in  sullen 
passivity  at  last. 

Yet  John  Mallane  was  not  a  tyranni 
cal  husband.  As  he  allowed  no  one  to 
interfere  with  "  his  business,"  so  he  was 


careful  not  to  encroach  upon  his  wife's 
prerogatives  in  the  management  of  the 
household  where  she  reigned  supreme. 
Thus,  this  sudden  invasion  of  her  terri 
tory,  with  his  last  declaration  of  author 
ity,  seemed  as  unpardonable  as  it  was 
unexpected.  Yet  he  had  said  it — "  She 
shall  not  leave  to-morrow  " — and  Tabi 
tha  Mallane  knew  that  now  there  was 
nothing  for  her  to  do  but  to  smother 
her  rage  and  submit. 

John  Mallane  read  on  awhile  in  si 
lence,  giving  time  to  the  chafed  and  fret 
ted  temper  of  his  wife  to  subside  into 
calmness.  She,  too,  was  silent,  knowing 
well  that  at  the  present  crisis  no  added 
word  of  hers  could  avail  in  gaining  her 
end.  John  Mallane  was  wise ;  he  never 
talked  with  his  wife  when  she  was 
angry ;  and  thus,  without  any  serious 
matrimonial  combats,  he  managed  to 
have  his  own  way  whenever  he  chose. 

When  he  thought  that  the  proper 
moment  had  arrived,  he  laid  down  his 
newspaper,  took  off  his  spectacles,  took 
his  red  silk  handkerchief  again  from 
his  pocket,  deliberately  polished  his 
glasses,  deliberately  reset  them  upon 
the  high  bridge  of  his  imperturbable 
nose,  and  as  deliberately  said  : 

"  Tabitha,  I  have  no  desire  to  be 
unreasonable.  I  know  that  you  have 
care  enough,  and  I  don't  want  to  in 
crease  it.  But  I  promised  this  little 
girl's  father  she  should  have  a  home  in 
my  family.  I  feel  sorry  for  Vale.  He 
is  one  of  the  kindest  men  in  the  world, 
but  he  isn't  a  manager.  I  am.  I've 
been  successful ;  he  hasn't.  I'm  rich, 
he's  poor.  I  send  my  boy  to  college ;  he 
sends  his  little  girl  to  work  in  my  shop. 
And  he'll  have  to  take  her  small  wages 
to  help  pay  the  mortgage  on  his  farm. 
I  am  not  willing  to  advance  money  on 
the  mortgage,  but  am  willing  to  give  a 
comfortable  home  to  his  little  girl,  who 
will  help  earn  it.  I  am  perfectly  able 
to  do  the  first,  I  am  only  willing  to  do 
the  latter.  It  is  no  stretch  of  generos 
ity,  you  see,  Tabitha  ?  " 

Mrs.  Mallane  made  no  reply.  But 
the  needle  in  the  stocking  seemed  to 
listen,  and  the  cradle  moved  with  a 
slow,  thoughtful  motion. 


14 


ElRENE  t 


Her  husband  continued :  "  Poor  Vale ! 
The  tears  came  into  his  eyes  when  he 
spoke  of  his  little  girl.  I  thought  of 
our  Gracy  ;  what  it  would  be  to  us  to 
send  her  out  into  a  strange  place  to 
work  in  a  shop*,  and  I  said  :  '  Vale,  I'll 
do  the  best  that  I  can  for  your  child. 
She  needn't  go  into  the  boarding-house 
with  the  other  hands.  She  shall  stay  in 
my  family,  and  eat  at  my  table,  and  I'll 
ask  nothing  extra.'  To  have  said  less 
would  have  been  inhuman.  You  don't 
want  me  to  be  inhuman,  especially  when 
it  don't  cost  any  more  to  be  human,  do 
you,  Tabitha  ? " 

Under  ordinary  circumstances,  Tabi 
tha  Mallane's  better  nature  would  have 
responded  to  this  appeal,  and  she  would 
have  said  :  "  Yes,  father,  you  are  right. 
I  have  been  unreasonable.  I  don't  com 
plain  that  you  take  your  own  way." 

But  against  this  act  of  her  husband's, 
against  this  child  whom  he  had  brought 
into  her  home,  was  arraigned  the  strong 
est  instinct  of  her  nature,  the  instinct 


of  maternity,  fierce,  selfish,  prevail 
ing. 

In  and  out  through  the  heel  of  a  fresh 
stocking  flew  the  glittering  needle  with 
spasmodic  haste,  while  the  jerking  cra 
dle,  the  working  of  the  strong  features, 
the  movement  of  the  large  frame,  all 
told  of  an  inward  struggle.  There  was 
a  silence  of  moments  before  she  spoke  ; 
then  the  anger  had  gone  out  of  her 
voice,  but  its  tones  were  deeply  troubled. 

"  I  have  feeling  for  the  girl,"  she 
said,  "  when  I  think  of  our  Grace  in 
her  place.  I  should  be  willing  enough 
to  have  her  stay,  if  it  was  not  for  our 
Paul." 

"  Nonsense  !  "  said  John  Mallane,  in 
an  incredulous  voice.  "  Tabitha,  let 
me  tell  you  once  for  all  that  our  Paul 
will  take  care  of  himself;"  and  with- 
these  words,  John  Mallane  again  took 
up  the  Boston  Journal,  and  soon  forgot 
the  existence  of  the  girl  up-stairs  in  the 
excitement  of  reading  about  "  South 
Carolina  Fire-Eaters." 


A  WOMAN'S  RIGHT. 


15 


OUR  Paul  had  come.  "Without  being 
told,  you  would  have  known  the  fact,  by 
the  changed  atmosphere  of  the  house. 

He  strode  about  like  a  king,  and  all 
the  children  were  afraid  of  him. 

To  tell  the  truth,  there  were  altogether 
too  many  children  in  the  house  to  please 
this  royal,  voung  gentleman.  Not  but 
what  he  had  some  fraternal  affection  for 
each  individual  brother  and  sister,  but 
in  the  aggregate  they  were  troublesome, 
"  so  many  young  ones." 

They  brought  more  or  less  of  noise  and 
confusion  into  the  house,  and  his  prince- 
ship  craved  order  and  quiet. 

Their  numerous  wants  absorbed  much 
of  the  time  and  attention  of  his  mother, 
which  he  wished  to  appropriate  to  him 
self. 

Every  other  summer  when  he  came 
home,  he  found  a  new  baby  in  the  cradle 
— it  was  very  aggravating. 

If  a  portion  of  the  aggravation  was 
born  of  the  fact  that  each  newcomer 
lessened  the  amount  of  his  prospective 
fortune,  Paul  had  never  acknowledged 
it,  even  to  himself.  It  was  enough  that 
they  annoyed  him  in  the  present ;  they 
made  a  noise,  they  were  in  the  way,  they 
filled  up  the  house,  which  the  young 


gentleman  had  already  pronounced  "a 
mean,  pinched-up  box." 

Paul  made  no  effort  to  hide  the  fact 
that  he  was  dissatisfied  with  the  appear 
ance  of  his  home,  and  his  dissatisfaction 
was  an  affliction  to  his  mother.  She  re 
membered  the  time  when  he  looked  upon 
the  family  sitting-room,  with  its  striped 
carpet  and  yellow  walls,  with  great  com 
placency,  and  thought  it  a  very  fine  af 
fair.  That,  was  before  he  went  to  Har 
vard,  or  had  seen  the  splendid  drawing- 
rooms  of  Beacon  street  and  of  Marlboro 
Hill.  Out  in  the  great  world  he  had 
stepped  upon  the  plateau  of  a  higher 
life,  a  life  of  leisure  and  ease,  a  life  of 
culture  and  of  graceful  repose.  It  was 
very  hard  for  him  to  step  down  again  to 
the  level  on  which  he  was  born.  He  did 
it  very  unwillingly  and  very  ungraceful 
ly.  Ever  since  he  could  remember,  his 
mother  had  been  drudging  and  saving, 
his  father  delving  and  making  money. 
He  was  determined  to  do  neither.  He 
wanted  money  only  for  the  gratification 
that  it  would  purchase ;  for  the  life  of 
luxury  and  splendor  which  were  unat 
tainable  without  it.  Each  year  the 
streets  of  Busyville  looked  narrower,  its 
houses  lower,  his  own  parental  domain 
smaller  than  the  y»ar  before.  Settle  in 


Intered,  in  the  yeir  1989,  by  O.  P.  PUTNAM  *  8O!f,  In  tile  Clerk ••  Office  of  the  Diitrict  Court  of  tht  U.  5.  for  th«  8<mtker«  District  of  5   T. 


16 


EIRENE : 


Busyville !  Never.  The  whole  king 
dom  of  Busyville  could  not  tempt  the 
ambition  of  this  young  prince. 

On  the  afternoon  of  his  arrival,  after 
having  condescended  to  kiss  his  mother 
and  patronize  the  children,  Paul  saun 
tered  into  his  father's  shops.  Paul  liked 
to  saunter  through  the  shops,  looking  at 
the  work-people,  and  talking  with  them 
in  a  half  supercilious,  half  hail-fellow 
way ;  it  added  to  the  consciousness  of 
his  own  importance.  Especially  he  en 
joyed  lounging  in  the  "Girls'  Koom." 
More  than  any  place  in  the  world,  there 
he  was  king.  To  a  company  of  young 
girls  shut  up  in  a  close  room,  to  ply  one 
monotonous  task  from  the  beginning  of 
the  year  to  its  close,  the  advent  of  a 
handsome,  polished  young  man  was  a 
very  pleasant  event.  It  must  have  been 
humiliating,  if  they  remembered  the 
fact  that  outside  of  that  shop  he  never 
recognized  them  ;  tfley  did  not  belong  to 
"his  set."  Tilly  Blane  and  the  other 
fair  maidens  of  the  mansion  houses  did 
not  speak  with  shop-girls  in  the  street ; 
then  why  should  he,  the  petted  beau  for 
whom  these  maidens  were  ready  to  give 
their  fortunes  or  break  their  hearts? 
But  in  the  shop  1  Ah,  that  was  a  differ 
ent  matter.  Here  no  king  amid  his 
court  could  be  more  graciously  conde 
scending.  Gay,  graceful,  debonair,  he 
loitered  through  the  long  room  at  his 
leisure,  chatting  with  all,  giving  a  smile 
to  one,  a  subtle  compliment  to  another, 
a  witty  sally  or  repartee  to  another, 
making  each  one  feel  that  he  was  espe 
cially  pleased  with  her  individual  self, 
indeed,  that  she  was  the  object  of  his 
particular  admiration.  Thus  each  one 
was  delighted  with  him. 

"Was  it  wonderful  ?  He  was  young 
and  handsome  and  rich,  with  a  charm 
of  manner  unwonted  among  the  men  of 
their  acquaintance.  They  were  young 
and  pretty  and  poor,  and  women.  Thus 
they  yielded  to  him  involuntarily  the 
homage  of  smiles  and  blushes  and  elo 
quent  eyes.  It  was  very  pleasant  to 
Paul.  Nowhere  else  did  he  feel  so  posi 
tively  sure  of  his  importance  and  power 
in  the  world  as  in  the  girls'  shop. 

He  felt  perfectly  secure  of  himself  in 


this  intoxicating  atmosphere;  felt  sure 
that  his  armor  of  pride  was  proof  against 
all  their  pretty  weapons.  "They  are 
none  of  them  my  style,"  he  would  solil 
oquize.  "  The  mountain  girls  are  too 
rustic,  and  the  town  girls  too  pert. 
Nearly  all  of  them  use  two  negatives  in 
a  sentence,  and  their  verbs  rarely  agree 
with  their  nominatives.  What  else  could 
be  expected  of  shop-girls?  But,  after 
all,  some  of  them  are  deuced  pretty,  and 
how  they  admire  me  !  How  delighted 
they  are  with  my  notice,  poor  things. 
There's  Lucy  Day,  she  really  thinks  that 
I  am  serious,  and  will  call  upon  her  on 
Sunday  evening.  The  devil !  I  am  go 
ing  to  see  Tilly  Blane,  of  course." 

On  this  afternoon,  he  had  nearly  com 
pleted  the  length  of  the  long  apaftment ; 
had  paused  in  his  leisurely  way  to  ex 
change  coquetries  with  every  fair  work 
er,  before  he  discovered  Eirene  Vale 
standing  busy  at  work  beside  a  window, 
in  a  remote  corner  of  the  apartment. 
He  could  not  see  her  face,  yet  knew  her 
at  once  to  be  a  stranger.  A  "  new 
hand"  always  possessed  a  degree  of 
interest  to  Paul,  yet  on  this  occasion  he 
forbore  to  manifest  it,  lest  he  might 
arouse  feelings  of  jealousy  in  the  hearts 
of  others  of  his  fair  subjects.  Thus  he 
asked  no  questions,  seemed  as  if  he  did 
not  see  the  stranger.  "  Is  she  pretty  ?  " 
This  question  he  determined  to  answer 
for  himself.  From  the  moment  of  his 
discovery,  he  thought  only  of  reaching 
the  spot  where  she  stood — it  was  gained 
at  last. 

"  Miss ?  "  he  said,  with  a  mix- 
tare  of  suavity  and  effrontery  which  he 
would  have  used  only  to  a  shop-girl  in 

his  own  father's  shop  :  "  Miss ?  " 

hesitating  as  if  he  knew  her  name,  yet 
could  not  that  instant  recall  if. 

Eirene  turned  her  face.  The  clear 
eyes  met  his  with  a  simple  look  of  sur 
prise.  She  was  neither  frightened  nor 
flattered.  The  innocent  face  expressed 
only  wonder  that  an  utter  stranger 
should  accost  her  with  the  familiarity  of 
a  friend,  while  she  waited  for  the  young 
gentleman  to  conclude  his  sentence. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon.    I  thought ." 

"  I  thought ; "  but  the  utter  COP 


A  WOMAN'S  RIGHT. 


IT 


fusion  of  the  youth  prevented  him  from 
telling  what  he  thought. 

The  conceited  boy  of  the  world  stood 
abashed  before  the  guileless  look  of  a 
young  girl's  eyes.  He  was  totally  un 
prepared  for  such  a  look,  it  was  so  differ 
ent  from  the  one  he  had  anticipated.  He 
had  expected  smiling  confusion,  blushing 
vanity,  with  spontaneous  and  undisguised 
admiration  of  his  own  imperial  self. 
This  apparent  unconsciousness  of  his 
magnificence,  this  utter  lack  of  self-con 
sciousness,  with  the  look  of  wonder  and 
inquiry  in  a  pair  of  eyes — the  loveliest, 
he  thought,  that  he  had  ever  seen — was 
too  much  for  Paul's  equanimity,  notwith 
standing  the  large  amount  of  his  self-pos 
session. 

To  his  astonishment  he  saw  before  him 
a  lady,  and  was  disgusted  that  he  had 
proved  himself  to  be  less  than  a  gentle 
man. 

"  I .      I  am  mistaken.      Pardon 

me,"  for  the  third  time  stammered  our 
discomfited  Adonis,  as,  with  a  profound 
bow,  he  withdrew.  He  felt  an  impulse 
to  rush  directly  out  of  the  shop.  He  was 
not  used  to  appearing  at  disadvantage. 
He  was  more  than  mortified  at  losing  his 
self-possession,  and  that  to  a  shop  girl — 
he  who  had  never  blushed  before  the 
beauties  of  Marlboro  Hill,  and  bad  borne 
without  flinching  the  full  blaze  of  the 
drawing-rooms  of  Beacon  street.  Yet 
amid  his  confusion  he  did  not  forget  that 
the  eyes  of  his  fair  subjects  were  upon 
him.  What  would  they  think?  What 
would  they  say,  if  they  saw  that  one  of 
their  own  class  had  the  power  to  embar 
rass  the  young  prince  and  send  him  in 
disconcerted  haste  from  their  presence  ? 
That  would  be  indeed  a  fall  from  his 
lofty  position. 

Thus  he  sauntered  down  the  other  side 
of  the  room  and  endeavored  to  chat  in 
his  wonted  manner.  But  somehow  he 
felt  the  gaze  oi'  those  innocent  eyes  still 
fixed  upon  him,  though  if  he  had  dared 
to  look,  he  would  have  seen  that  they 
were  bent  steadfastly  upon  their  work. 
The  amusement  of  flirting  had  suddenly 
lost  all  its  zest.  He  found  himself  judg 
ing  these  buxom  beauties  by  a  new  stand 
ard — the  face  that  he  had  just  left  behind 
2 


him.  How  coarse  their  voices  sounded, 
how  inane  their  words  seemed  now.  lie 
was  thankful  when  he  came  to  the  end 
and  had  made  his  last  pretty  speech. 

He  went  out,  and  but  one  face  went 
with  him.  He  did  not  know  the  name 
of  its  possessor,  he  had  not  enquired. 
He  could  have  asked  the  question  care 
lessly  enough  to  have  gratified  an  idlu 
curiosity.  But  it  was  not  idle  curiosity, 
it  was  interest  which  he  felt.  Should 
he,  Paul  Mallane,  betray  interest  in  one 
of  his  father's  shop-girls  ?  Oh,  no.  He 
could  not  forget  so  far  his  high  position. 

"Mother  could  tell  me,"  he  said  to 
himself  as  he  stepped  into  the  street. 
"  She  knows  every  girl  that  comes  and 
goes  from  these  shops.  But  she  is  the 
last  person  on  earth  that  I  would  ask." 

Paul  was  too  well  aware  what  his 
mother  thought  of  his  visiting  the  shops. 

"It  is  undignified  and  beneath  you, 
Paul,"  she  would  say,  "to  lounge  away 
so  much  of  your  time  with  the  shop 
hands.  Besides,  it  is  dangerous.  It  is 
very  pleasant,  I  know.,  to  bewitch  those 
pretty  mountain  girls.  I  am  sure  you, 
do,"  and  the  mother  would  look  with 
gratified  pride  upon  the  young,  handsome 
face,  "  But  by-and-by  one  may  bewitch 
you.  I  know  you  think  not;  but  you 
don't  know  how  foolish  a  pretty  face 
might  make  even  you,  Paul,  with  all 
your  ambition." 

"Mother,  you  need  not  worry  about 
me,"  the  young  man  would  say,  with  a 
conscious  air.  "  I  have  never  seen  a 
shop-girl  yet,  no,  nor  any  girl,  who  could 
make  me  forget  what  is  due  to  my  posi- ' 
tion." 

After  his  promenade  through  the  shops, 
Paul  had  intended  to  show  his  handsome 
face  and  air  his  immaculate  broadcloth 
on  Main  street.  He  knew  that  Tilly 
Blane  would  see  him  as  she  looked 
through  the  blinds  of  the  squire's  house, 
at  first  with  eager  hope,  and  then  with 
tearful  disappointment,  as  he,  the  impe 
rial  Paul,  strode  past  in  sublime  uncon 
sciousness  of  being  opposite  her  paternal 
mansion.  He  knew  also  that  Abby  Ar- 
not  would  peep  through  the  blinds  of  the 
house  across  the  street,  and  as  she 
watched  him  pass  by,  exclaim  with  a  toss 


18 


EIRENE : 


of  triumph:  "There!  There  goes  Paul 
Mallane  !  He  doesn't  even  look  toward 
Squire  Blanc's.  Talk  to  me  of  he  and 
Tilly  being  engaged." 

He  thought,  too,  how  old  Deacon  Nug- 
gett,  sitting  in  his  shop  door,  would  call 
out  as  he  passed  by  :  "  Ah,  Paul !  Paul 
Mallane,  is  that  you  I  "Well !  well !  how 
fine  ye're  lookin'.  A  son  any  father 
might  be  proud  on.  Y'u'll  be  in  Con 
gress  in  ten  years,  eh  ?  Paul !  " 

But  when  he  rushed  forth  from  the 
factory  door,  Paul  had  forgotten  all  these 
anticipated  triumphs.  He  walked  straight 
across  the  street  to  the  white  house  under 
the  trees.  He  entered  it,  but  did  not  go 
into  the  family  sitting-room,  where  he 
knew  that  his  mother  sat  rocking  the 
baby.  Instead  he  walked  into  the  prim 
parlor  and  threw  himself  down  upon  the 
stiff  high-backed  sofa.  Paul  was  dis 
gusted  with  himself  (a  most  unusual  state 
of  mind),  therefore  it  was  not  strange 
that  he  soon  grew  equally  disgusted  with 
every  thing  that  he  beheld.  "  What  a 
shabby,  shut-up  box  this  parlor  is,  any 
way,"  he  said  to  himself.  "  There  is 
nothing  spacious,  nor  elegant,  nor  easy 
about  it.  And  yet  before  I  went  away 
from  Busy  ville  I  thought  it  spleridid,  just 
as  mother  thinks  it  is  now.  The  pattern 
of  this  carpet  is  entirely  too  large  for  the 
room,  it  looks  as  if  it  was  crowding  the 
walls  back.  And  the  walls  are  too  low 
for  these  great  pictures,  and  the  pictures 
are  in  di-mal  taste.  Washington's  Death 
bed  ;  and  Calvin,  preaching  his  gloomy 
theology ;  and  Grandmother  Bard  in  a 
frizzled  wig  looking  as  black  as  thunder. 
They  say  that  I  look  like  her  too,  and 

how  that  centre-table  looks,  with 

that  square  of  daguerreotypes  piled 
around  the  astral  lamp.  That  is  Gracy's 
work.  If  there  is  no  one  else,  I  will 
teach  her  how  to  take  a  little  of  the  stiff 
ness  out  of  this  room.  She  should  see 
the  drawing-rooms  at  Marlboro'  Hill ; 
then  she  would  know  how  to  arrange  a 
parlor.  But  to  make  an  elegant  room 
of  this  is  impossible,"  and  Paul  gazed 
about  with  an  expression  of  increased 
contempt.  "  Dick  Prescott  expects  to 
come  here,  too.  He  shan't.  He  shan't 
see  this  parlor.  He  shan't  see  ." 


What  ?  Paul  did  not  see  fit  to  say.  He 
threw  his  head  further  back,  fixed  -his 
eyes  upon  the  ceiling,  and  as  the  rich 
color  stained  his  cheek,  impatiently  ex 
claimed  :  "  I  am  an  ass." 

It  was  a  most  unwonted  state  of  mind 
which  could  make  the  young  prince  of 
the  house  of  Mallane  declare  himself  to 
be  "an  ass." 

The  bell  rang  for  tea.  Paul  did  not 
stir.  "  Let  those  children  get  seated 
with  their  confounded  clatter;"  said  this 
amiable  young  man,  with  eyes  still  fixed 
upon  the  ceiling.  When  the  shuffling 
of  little  feet  and  the  shouts  of  eager 
voices  had  subsided  a  little,  and  the  click 
of  tea-cups  and  the  tinkling  of  tea-spoons 
and  the  fragrance  of  tea  reached  his  nose 
and  ears  instead,  Paul  arose,  and,  half 
lazily,  half  ill-naturedly,  sauntered  forth. 

"Here,  Paul,  here's  your  seat  by  me," 
said  Mrs.  Mallane,  as  turning  witli  her 
most  benignant  mother-look,  she  saw 
Paul,  with  an  expression  of  annoyance 
and  embarrassment  upon  his  face,  stand 
ing  in  the  open  door.  When  he  opened 
it,  a  pair  of  clear  eyes  looked  up  from  a 
tea-cup.  The  young  face  whose  guik-less- 
ness  had  so  abashed  his  impertinence  in 
the  work-shop,  wearing  the  same  ex 
pression,  looked  up  to  his  from  the  home 
supper-table.  His  astonishment  at  see 
ing  it  there,  with  the  recollection  of  his 
behavior,  again  overcame  Paul's  self- 
possession.  He  stood  perfectly  still,  as 
if  he  thought  there  was  no  seat  for  him 
at  the  table.  Not  till  after  he  had  taken 
the  place  proffered  by  his  mother,  did 
Paul  become  conscious  that  he  was  sit 
ting  on  the  same  side  with  the  young 
stranger,  his  sister  Grace  between  them, 
while  his  accustomed  seat  opposite 
was  filled  by  little  Jack.  Again  he  was 
vexed.  Much  as  it  had  disconcerted 
him — strange  to  say,  he  felt  the  most 
insane  desire  to  look  on  the  face  again. 

"  Mother  intended  that  I  should  not, 
and  so  seated  me  here,"  he  thought, 
looking  full  upon  that  matron's  counte 
nance.  The  gray  eyes  were  fixed  upon 
him  with  a  penetrating  gaze. 

"Will  you  take  tea,  Paul?"  was  all 
that  she  said. 

Paul  began  to  sip  his  tea  in  silence, 


A  WOMAN'S  RIGHT. 


19 


and  all  the  children  began  to  stare  at 
him,  wondering  if  this  could  be  onr  Paul 
who  was  so  silent ;  when  suddenly, 
rallying  his  forces,  he  commenced  rat 
tling  on  in  his  old,  gay,  careless  manner. 

It  was  his  usual  vacation  talk,  all 
about  the  Presents  and  Appletons  and 
Marlboro  Hill ;  the  distinguished  men 
and  beautiful  women  whom  he  had  met. 
This  talk  was  usually  very  interesting  to 
both  John  and  Tabitha  Mallane  ;  to  the 
father,  because  he  felt  a  genuine  interest 
in  the  persons  described ;  to  the  mother, 
because  it  gratified  her  ambition  to  know 
that  her  son  was  admitted  into  such 
illustrious  company. 

There  had  been  a  grand  reunion  at 
Cambridge  of  philosophers  and  poets  of 
the  transcendental  order.  Paul,  with  a 
few  other  young  bloods  of  the  law 
school,  had  managed,  through  the  pres 
tige  of  Dick  Prescott,  to  gain  admittance, 
and  had  thus  caught  a  glimpse  of  the 
savants  and  seers.  Paul  had  seen  Tho- 

reau,  and  Hawthorne  ;  E and  H 

and  L ,  and  gave  brilliant  descriptions 

of  them  all.  "  L ,"  he  said,  "  with  his 

hair  parted  in  the  middle,  looks  as  much 
like  the  picture  of  Christ  as  ever." 
Eirene  was  thinking  what  a  grand 
young  gentleman  this  must  be,  who  was 
on  such  familiar  terms  with  the  great 
men  of  whom  she  had  read  all  her  life, 
but  whom  she  never  hoped  to  see ; 
when  this  last  remark  struck  her  sensi 
tive  soul  like  blasphemy.  She  looked 
up,  caught  the  eyes  of  the  speaker  as 
they  turned  and  gazed  over  the  head 
of  his  sister  Grace.  Once  more  they 
grew  disconcerted  and  fell  before  the 
child-like  glance.  Again  Paul  inwardly 
pronounced  himself  an  ass ;  but  turning 
toward  his  mother,  he  ran  on  more 
pompously  than  before ;  while  the  chil 
dren,  their  eyes  distended  with  wonder, 
and  their  cheeks  distended  with  pie  and 
cheese,  listened,  inwardly  exclaiming: 
"  What  a  great  man  our  Paul  must  be." 

PA0L   AND     HIS    MOTHER. 

TEA  was  soon  dispatched.  Eating  in 
this  New  England  household  was  mere 
ly  a  business  affair,  and  as  such  dispatch 
ed  as  soon  as  possible. 


The  aesthetic  phase  of  tea-drinking, 
the  toying  with  tea-spoons,  the  lingering 
over  tea-cups  to  tell  pleasant  stories  of 
the  day,  Tabitha  Mallane  had  never 
learned.  To  give  her  family  enough  to 
eat,  to  have  them  eat  it  as  quickly  as 
possible,  and  to  have  her  table  cleared 
in  the  briefest  space  of  time  that  could 
be,  was  to  her  the  Alpha  and  Omega  of 
eating. 

Although  Paul  had  just  returned  and 
seemed  to  have  much  to  tell,  this  meal 
was  no  exception  to  others.  Indeed,  the 
atmosphere  of  hurry  seemed  more  posi 
tive  than  usual. 

Eirene  found  herself  swallowing  her 
tea  with  great  trepidation,  and  wonder 
ing  why  she  felt  that  there  was  not 
time  to  drink  it,  and  why  each  individ 
ual  there  was  doing  the  same,  as  rapidly 
as  possible. 

With  a  feeling  of  relief,  she  saw  Mr. 
Mallane  push  back  his  chair.  No  one 
hnd  introduced  her  to  Paul.  Nobody 
but  Mr.  Mallane  had  spoken  to  her 
through  the  meal.  No  one  seemed  to 
notice  her  as  she  walked  quietly  out  of 
the  room  ;  yet  two  persons  at  the  table 
were  keenly  conscious  of  her  departure. 

"  Kene  !  Eene  !  Poor  Mo "  cried 

out  the  parrot  as  she  opened  the  door  of 
her  little  cell.  At  the  sound  of  his 
name,  the  image  of  lank,  awkward,  yel 
low-haired  Moses  rose  before  her,  in 
contrast  to  the  handsome  young  stranger 
down-stairs. 

"  Strange  that  there  can  be  such  a 
difference  in  two,"  she  ejaculated  invol 
untarily,  as  taking  up  her  book,  she  sat 
down  on  a  low  stool  beside  the  window 
and  commenced  the  translation  of  a 
French  exercise.  It  was  an  extract  from 
Bossuet :  "Quoique  Dieu  et  la  nature aient 
fait  tons  les  hommes  egaux  en  Itsformant 
(Tune  meme  bone,  la  vanite  humaine  ne 
pent  souffrir  cette  egalite."  "  Although 
God  and  Nature  have  made  all  men 
equal  in  forming  them  of  the  same  earth, 
human  vanity  cannot  bearthat  equality." 
She  paused,  the  pencil  poised  in  her  sus 
pended  hand.  A  young  manly  face  set 
in  dark  hair,  lit  with  dark  eyes,  seemed 
to  look  up  into  hers  from  the  page  before 
her.  "  How  it  would  have  grieved  mo- 


20 


EIBENE : 


tber  to  hear  the  Saviour's  name  spoken 
with  such  indifference,"  she  said  simply, 
murmuring  the  sentence  aloud  after  the 
manner  of  people  much  alone.  "  But  why 
should  I  think  of  it?"  she  continued, 
bending  her  eyes  once  more  upon  the 
page,  and  resuming  her  task.  But  the 
vagi-ant  thought  refused  to  be  called  back 
to  the  study  of  French.  '"Then  he  is 
Paul  of  whom  I  have  heard  so  much,"  it 
whispered.  She  looked  up  from  her 
book,  out  upon  the  garden;  there  under 
the  old  cherry-tree,  on  the  grass  was 
stretched  the  same  Paul,  gazing  up  as  if 
he  saw  a  vision. 

There  he  was!  and  she  was  thinking 
of  him !  This  consciousness  sent  the 
quick  blood  into  the  young  girl's  cheeks 
for  the  first  time. 

Paul  saw  it,  this  maiden-blush,  saw  it 
as  the  first  recognition  of  his  own  prince 
ly  self,  and  it  sent  a  new  thrill  into  his 
heart,  a  thrill  that  went  into  his  dreams. 
For  a  number  of  moment-?  he  had  been 
gazing  without  interruption  on  this 
fair  picture  above  him ;  on  the  pure 
profile  of  the  young  face  in  the  open 
window  within  its  frame  of  dark  vines. 
The  long  gaze  could  hardly  have  come 
to  a  more  delightful  termination  than 
this,  caused  by  the  uplifted  face,  the 
vivid  blush.  And  yet  he  felt  once  more 
abashed  that  he  had  been  discovered. 
He  arose  with  a  bow,  then  threw  him 
self  down  again  and  fixed  his  eyes  with 
a  look  of  profound  meditation  upon  the 
sky.  "  He  came  out  to  think,"  reflected 
Eircne,  and  that  she  might  not  seem  to 
in : rude  upon  his  meditation,  she  moved 
her  seat  from  the  window,  and  in  the 
interior  of  her  cell  once  more  invoked 
the  eloquence  of  Bossuet  to  assist  her  in 
studying  French. 

To  do  Paul  justice,  he  did  not  throw 
himself  upon  the  grass  for  the  purpose 
of  gazing  at  Eirene's  window ;  he  came 
into  the  garden  solely  to  escape  his 
mother  and  himself.  The  pretty  picture 
of  the  window  had  been  an  unanticipat 
ed  delight,  enjoyed  the  more  keenly  be 
cause  unexpected  and  stolen.  He  knew 
that  if  his  mother  could  have  foreseen 
this  pleasure,  he  would  never  have  en 
joyed  it. 


Tabitha  Mallane  had  hastened  supper 
and  the  children  out  of  the  way,  in  or 
der  that  she  might  have  a  talk  with 
Paul. 

The  young  gentleman  would  have 
gladly  escaped,  but  he  knew  that  it  was 
useless  to  try  to  evade  his  mother;  he 
might  delay  it,  perhaps,  but  the  talk 
would  come. 

"  Sit  down,  Paul,"  she  said  as  she  seat 
ed  herself  in  her  low  chair  and  began  to 
rock  the  cradle,  her  invariable  employ 
ment  when  she  had  "  something  to  say." 
"  What,  going  out  ?  "  "  How  uneasy  you 
are.  You  will  have  plenty  of  time  left 
to  see  Tilly  Blane  if  you  do  sit  a  little 
while  and  talk  with  your  mother." 

Then  she  began  to  question  him  con 
cerning  his  studies  and  his  prospects  for 
being  graduated  with  honor.  "  No 
mother's  boy  should  stand  before  him," 
she  declared,  as  her  questions  were 
promptly  and  favorably  answered.  Yet 
she  did  not  seem  satisfied,  and  began  to 
rock  the  cradle  violently  in  the  silence. 

"  "What  do  you  think  of  the  new  hand, 
Paul  ?  "  she  asked  abruptly. 

"What  hand?" 

"Why,  the  one  that  your  father  will 
have  eat  at  our  table.  Isn't  she  pretty?" 

"Pretty?  ra ther,"  answered   the 

young  gentleman,  with  the  imperturbable 
air  which  he  always  summoned  to  his 
assistance  in  such  conversations  with  Ids 
mother.  "  You  took  care  that  I  should 
see  only  half  of  her  face,  that  looked 
well  enough,"  he  continued. 

"But  what  do  you  think  of  her, 
Paul?" 

"  Think !  I  think  she  is  dressed  like  a 
dud.  Can't  say  how  she  would  look  in 
the  costume  of  the  present  century." 

"  Don't  try  to  evade,  Paul.  Yon  know 
that  I  am  not  talking  of  her  dress.  What 
do  you  think  of  the  girl  ? " 

"  What  time  have  I  had  to  think  of 
her?  "  "Ten  minutes  at  supper." 

"  Half  the  afternoon,  Paul." 

"What  an  idea!  Why  should  I  think 
of  her  more  than  of  any  other  shop 
hand?" 

"  Why,  Paul  ?  The  girl's  face  answers 
that  question.  You  can't  deceive  me. 
I  saw  you  go  into  the  shops.  I  saw  you 


A  WOMAN'S  RIGHT. 


21 


come  back.  Something  unusual  hap 
pened  there,  or  you  would  not  have  come 
and  shut  yourself  in  that  dark  parlor, 
instead  of  going  into  the  street.  Then, 
when  you  came  in  to  supper  and  saw  her 
sitting  at  the  table,  your  face  told  me  of 
whom  you  had  been  thinking." 

"Mother,  you  need  not  begin  to  hold 
guard  over  me,"  exclaimed  the  young 
man,  angrily.  "  You  need  not  watch  me 
through  the  blinds,  when  I  go  out,  and 
when  I  come  in.  I  am  not  one  of  your 
babies.  I  know  what  belongs  to  my  po 
sition." 

Poor  Paul !  No  matter  what  his  an- 
floyance,  it  was  .such  a  support  for  him 
to  fall  back  upon  his  "  position." 

"  I  know  you,  Paul,"  said  his  mother, 
leaning  forward,  eagerly,  rocking  the 
cradle-more  violently,  as  she  always  did 
when  excited.  "  Because  I  know  you, 
I  warn  you,  in  the  beginning,  against  this 
girl  up-stairs.  She  is  sly  and  deceitful, 
such  still  people  always  are.  She  in 
tends  to  captivate  you  with  her  quiet 
ways  and  her  great  soft  eye?,  and  she 
will  captivate  you  in  spite  of  all  your 
pride  and  all  your  ambition,  unless  you 
are  on  your  guard.  Of  course,  my  son, 
you  know  what  is  due  to  your  position, 
you  know  what  your  mother  expects  of 
you  ;  but  it  will  be  hard  for  you  to  be 
true  to  your  knowledge  until  you  are 
older." 

"  Mother,  who  under  heaven  is  this  girl 
that  you  are  making  such  a  fuss  about?" 

"  Her  name  is  Vale.  Eirene  Vale. 
Her  name  is  as  outlandish  as  her  family. 
She  comes  from  a  shiftless,  poverty- 
stricken  set,  up  on  the  mountains.  Her 
father  whimpered  about  her  having  to 
go  to  work,  and  so  your  father  took  a 
notion  to  be  kind  to  the  girl.  You  know 
what  your  father's  notions  are  ?  They 
can't  be  changed.  He  will  have  her 
here.  She  is  a  nuisance.  I  hate  the 
eight  of  her." 

Paul  leaned  back  in  the  rocking-chair, 
yawned,  and  then  began  to  whistle.  He 
was  not  as  fluent  upon  the  subject  of  the 
"  new  hand  "  as  upon  his  favorite  topics 
of  the  Prescotts,  and  Marlboro  Hill.  He 
had  nothing  to  say  ;  he  looked  bored  and 
sleepy. 


"  "Well,"  he  said  at  last,  in  a  careless 
tone,  "you  are  making  a  great  ado, 
and  I  am  sure  I  don't  know  what  for. 
You  say  that  this  girl  is  'sly,  poverty- 
stricken,  and  a  nuisance.'  Do  you  think 
that  there  is  the  slightest  danger  of  my 
committing  myself  to  such  a  person  ?  " 
and  with  this  disclaimer  Paul  thrust  his 
hands  into  his  pockets,  sauntered  forth 
into  the  garden,  and  threw  himself 
down  under  the  old  cherry-tree. 

"  Mother  will  overdo  everything,"  he 
said  to  himself,  angrily.  She  ought  to 
know  more  of  human  nature  than 
to  think  such  talk  will  make  me  dis 
like  the  girl.  Why  did  not  she  let  her 
alone?  and  let  me  alone?  It  is  enough 
to  make  a  fellow  say  that  he  will 
make  love,  even  if  he  had  not  thought 
of  it  before.  Of  course,  there  is  every 
reason  why  I  should  never  commit  my 
self  to  one  in  her  position.  But  I  don't 
like  to  be  balked.  I  won't  be  balked, 
not  by  my  mother.  Why  didn't  she 
leave  me  to  my  reason  ?  Then  I  could 
have  taught  myself  to  have  looked  on 
this  face  without — well,  without  such  a 
flutter.  Such  a  face  !  " 

"  Such  a  face !  "  Surely.  As  Paul 
threw  his  head  back  to  look  up  into  the 
sky,  he  caught  a  glimpse  of  it  in  the 
frame  of  vines  in  the  open  window  above 
him. 

What  was  it  in  this  face  which  so  held 
his  gaze  ?  It  was  not  its  youthful  love 
liness  alone,  Paul  was  used  to  beautiful 
face?.  It  did  not  please  his  senses  only, 
it  seemed  to  touch  his  soul,  it  rested,  it 
soothed,  it  satisfied.  What  a  contrast 
to  the  eager,  restless,  life-worn  face 
which  he  had  just  left.  The  worldly, 
selfish,  blase  boy  gazed  on,  till  through 
the  evening  air  something  of  the  serenity 
of  the  pure  young  brow  stole  down  to 
him.  As  he  gazed,  he  felt  within  him 
the  promptings  of  his  better  angel  telling 
him  that  with  such  a  face  to  light  his 
life,  purity  and  peace  would  be  possible 
even  to  him. 

Tabitha  Mallane  looked  out  of  the 
window,  saw  her  son,  then  walked  back 
to  the  cradle  and  rocked  it  as  if  she  were 
frantic.  The  baby  must  have  thought 
so,  for  it  awoke  with  a  terrific  scream, 


22 


El RF.NB  : 


which  instantly  brought  Paul  back  from 
Elysium,  and  made  him  say,  "  Curse  that 
child!" 

Tabitha  Mallane  did  know  Paul  bet 
ter  than  his  father  knew  him ;  better 
than  he  knew  himself.  When  she  said  : 
This  girl's  face  will  take  the  heart  out  of 
our  Paul,  she  spoke  from  the  depth  of 
her  consciousness  of  his  nature.  He 
had  taken  this  nature  from  his  mother, 
he  was  like  her. 

She  remembered  her  own  impulsive 
youth,  when  even  interest  and  ambition 
went  down  before  the  one,  importunate 
want  of  a  young,  passionate  heart.  Well 
she  remembered  when  she  turned  from 
the  goodly  lands  and  the  pimply  face  of 
Benoni  Blane  to  marry  John  Mallane, 
though  all  Busyville  held  up  its  hands, 
rolled  up  its  eyes,  turned  up  its  nose  and 
exclaimed  in  wonder,  because  "  Tabitha 
Bard  looked  no  higher  than  a  journey 
man  worker,  and  he  a  Yorker." 

She  remembered  the  struggling  years 
of  her  early  married  life,  when  Paul  was 
a  baby.  She  had  not  forgotten,  when 
she  drew  him  through  the  village  streets 
in  his  little  wagon,  how  slie  used  to 
meet  young  Squire  Blane's  pretty  wife 
with  the  infant  Tilly  in  a  fine  carriage. 

She  could  see  distinctly  now,  the  nod, 
half  condescending,  half  disdainful,  which 
the  young  beauty  would  throw  her  as 
the  carriage  rolled  on.  She  remembered 
how  she  used  to  stand  in  the  dusty  street, 
with  the  handle  of  the  little  wagon  in 
her  hand,  gazing  after  the  fine  phaeton, 
thinking  it  might  have  been  hers,  if  she 
had  only  been  willing  to  have  accepted 
with  it  the  pimply  face  of  Benoni  Blane. 

She  was  not  sorry.  Although  her 
share  in  the  old  homestead  was  long 
withheld  from  her  by  an  angry  mother  ; 
although  she  had  borne  the  disgrace,  ter 
rible  in  New  England,  of  being  poor: 
she  would  not  have  exchanged  John 
Mallane  for  Benoni  Blane  with  all  his 
possessions.  She  wanted  John  Mallane, 
but  she  wanted  the  equipage,the  mansion, 
and  the  honored  position  also.  "  I  will 
have  them,"  she  exclaimed,  gazing  after 
the  receding  carriage.  "  The  day  will 
come  when  your  baby  will  be  glad 
enough  of  the  notice  of  my  boy  ;  when 


you  won't  toss  your  head  at  me  like  that, 
Belinda  Blane." 

Tabitha  Mallane  had  divining  eyes. 
They  foreread  the  future ;  her  prophecy 
was  fulfilled. 

The  poor  journeyman  worker  was  now 
one  of  the  wealthiest  manufacturers  in 
Busyville.  His  opinions  carried  great 
weight  in  the  councils  of  the  church, 
and  in  "Town  meeting."  He  had  re 
flected  great  credit  upon  Busyville  in  the 
State  legislature,  and  for  all  these 
weighty  reasons,  Busyville  had  forgiven 
him  for  having  been  born  poor,  and  in 
another  State. 

Tabitha  Mallane's  handsome  son,  the 
Harvard  student,  the  incipient  lawyer, 
the  prospective  member  of  Congress,  the 
possible  President  of  the  United  States, 
all  in  all  considered,  was  the  finest 
"  catch "  in  Busyville.  There  were 
young  men  there  with  purer  hearts,  and 
brains  quite  as  clever,  but  they  lacked 
the  money,  or  the  beauty,  or  the  grand, 
imperial  air  of  Paul.  lie  assumed  so 
much  indifference  and  hauteur,  and  was 
withal  so  very  graceful  and  handsome, 
that  there  was  not  a  girl  in  all  the  man 
sion  houses  but  what  felt  flattered  when 
he  condescended  to  bestow  his  attentions. 
All  this  was  a  misfortune  to  Paul.  He 
stood  sorely  in  need  of  a  little  humilia 
tion.  The  consciousness  of  supreme 
power  over  women  is  so  very  dangerous 
to  any  man.  His  mother's  great  anxiety 
came  from  the  fear  that  he  would  not 
make  the  most  of  his  advantages.  She 
was  so  afraid  that,  in  some  moment  of 
impulse  and  passion,  he  would  do  pre 
cisely  as  she  did  once :  marry  for  love 
without  asking  his  mother's  permission. 
She  had  never  repented  her  own  course. 
When  she  looked  back  into  the  years,  she 
always  said  :  "  I  would  do  the  same  if  I 
were  to  live  my  life  over  again.  I  could 
never  love  another  man  as  I  love  John 
Mallane;  beside?,  I  always  knew  that  he 
would  die  rich.  It  is  very  different  with 
Paul.  He  could  never  work  and  wait  as  I 
have  done,  for  a  fortune.  He  was  made  to 
enjoy  and  to  spend  one.  Besides,  my  boy 
shall  never  drudge  and  suffer  what  I 
have,  in  struggling  up  to  prosperity. 
He  must  marry  a  rich  wife.  If  we  could 


A  WOMAN'S  RIGHT. 


give  him  all  we  have,  it  wouldn't  be 
much  with  his  taste  and  habits.  He 
thinks  that  we  live  in  a  yery  poor  way  " 
(and  here  the  poor  mother  would  sigh). 

'•"What  will  our  property  be,  divided 
among  eight?"  "One  eighth!  What 
would  that  be  to  our  Paul  ?  Of  course, 
he  will  settle  in  the  city.  Before  that 
he  must  marry  Tilly  Blane.  She  is  long 
ing  to  give  herself  and  all  that  she  has 
to  him.  I  knew  that  she  would,  long  ago. 
Belinda  Blane,  h's  a  long  time  since  you 
tossed  your  head  at  me. 

"  And  now  that  girl  up-stairs !  I  hate 
her,  she  is  in  the  way/' 

BUSYVILLE — ITS    BRAHMINS   AND   BUSTLERS. 

BTTSYVILLE  was  a  fair  type  of  a  small 
manufacturing  New  England  village. 
Its  Yankee  friends  called  it  "a  smart 
little  town."  It  was,  in  truth,  an  enter 
prising,  energetic,  money-getting  place. 

Within  a  limited  range  of  thought  and 
action,  its  people  were  intelligent,  but 
its  arc  of  life  was  very  narrow.  Its  be 
setting  sin  was  littleness.  Its  factories, 
its  school*,  its  churches,  its  houses,  its 
people,  all  betrayed  this  tendency  toward 
contraction. 

Their  life  was  shaped  by  the  belief 
that  Busyville,  having  arrived  at  a  state 
of  absolute  perfection  generations  before, 
could  not  by  any  possibility  be  improved. 

Family  branches  which  had  struck  out 
and  taken  root  in  the  great  world,  some 
times  strayed  back  and  informed  their 
kindred  on  the  parent  tree  that  Busyville 
was  behind  the  times ;  information  whjch 
said  kindred  resented  as  an  insult.  In 
their  opinion,  any  knowledge  which  was 
not  known  in  Busyville,  was  not  worth 
knowing.  In  their  old  Academy,  the 
formula  of  study  had  not  varied  in  fifty 
years.  Within  a  certain  ra^ge,  it  was 
excellent ;  but  it  never  advanced,  never 
grew  larger.  To  its  denizens  Busyville 
was  the  Eden  of  this  world.  To  have 
been  born  in  another  town,  was  a  mis 
fortune;  to  have  been  born 'in  another 
country,  was  an  ineffaceable  disgrace. 
The  poor  stranger,  the  lonely  foreigner 
who  alighted  here  to  Inok  for  work,  had 
a  sorry  time.  It  did  not  occur  to  the 
pious  women  who  sent  boxes  of  clothing 


to  the  Congoes,  and  sometimes  stinted 
themelves  to  help  support  the  mission 
ary  whom  they  had  sent  to  civilize  the 
Hottentots,  that  there  might  be  mission- 
work  to  do  even  in  Christian  Busyville. 

There  were  crowded  lanes  and  by-ways 
in  this  town  swarming  with  wild,  ill- 
cared  for  children.  It  would  have  been 
a  mercy  to  have  clothed  and  cared  for 
them,  and  to  have  led  them  by  the  hand 
into  the  commodious  Sabbath-schools 
filled  with  the  smiling,  singing  children 
of  the  church ;  but  the  women  devoted 
to  the  Congoes  had  no  time  left  for  little 
white  shiners  at  home.  In  close  cham 
bers  and  in  little  tenements,  lonely 
stranger-women  lived  out  their  crushed 
existence ; — overtaxed,  sore-worn  wives 
and  mothers  whose  weary  fasks  were 
never  done.  To  one  of  these  a  call  from 
a  prosperous  sister-woman — one  kindly 
expression  of  personal  interest,  would 
have  been  as  the  cup  of  cold  water  to 
one  of  Christ's  thirsting  little  ones. 
Alas !  it  was  rarely  proffered.  The  lady 
absorbed  in  the  Hottentots  had  nothing 
left  for  the  "common  woman"  who 
washed  her  husband's  shirts  and  mended 
her  many  children's  scanty  clothes  in 
the  shop  tenements  of  Busyville.  The 
bustling,  well-to-do  wives  of  Busyvillo 
were  too  busy  with  their  societies,  and 
schools,  with  their  churches  and  houses, 
their  own  and  their  neighbors'  affairs, 
to  have  either  time  or  capacity  left  to 
devote  to  "  outlandish  people." 

The  sin  of  being  a  stranger  in  Busy 
ville  was  never  more  keenly  felt  than  by 
the  newcomer  on  commencement  day  at 
the  Academy.  Then  the  daughters  of 
the  Busyville  Brahmins,  the  maidens  of 
the  mansion-houses,  the  buxom  beauties 
of  the  old  homesteads  proceeded  to  the 
seats  which  they  had  occupied  from  their 
earliest  recollection  and  proceeded  to 
pass  judgment  upon  all  aliens.  With 
supercilious  and  mocking  eyes  they 
measured  the  rustic  youths  and  maidens 
from  the  mountain-towns,  and  the  young 
strangers  from  other  States.  After  the 
first  session,  the  fair  Sanhedrim  met  in 
solemn  conclave  and  decided  whose  out 
ward  aspect  entitled  them  to  be  "  one  of 
ourselves." 


24 


EIEEXE : 


Woe  to  the  girl  who  "  looked  poor." 
Woe  to  tlie  pale  student  whom  they  sus 
pected  of  having  emerged  from  one  of 
the  village  shops,  she  never  became 
"  one  of  oumlves." 

No  one  proffered  to  assist  lier  in  the 
solution  of  Algebraic  prollems.  No 
sweet  girl-voice  which  had  parsed  trium 
phantly  through  Paradise  Lost,  offered 
to  lead  her  through  pages  of  involved 
analyses.  She  watched  the  cliques  of 
pretty  girls  laughing  and  playing  under 
the  trees  at  recess,  or  looked  with  wist 
ful  eyes  as  they  recited  their  lessons  in 
groups  in  the  old  Laboratory, — but  no 
welcoming  word  or  smile  ever  made  her 
feel  that  she  was  one  of  them.  She 
passed  in  and  out  of  the  long  halls  as 
alone  and-Ion^ly  on  the  last  day  of  school 
as  at  its  beginning. 

The  lines  of  caste  were  as  rigidly 
drawn  in  orthodox  Busy ville,  as  in  Pagan 
India. 

One  had  to  probe  «th rough  the  family 
soil  for  two  or  three  generations  to  ap 
preciate  duly  the  prerogatives  of  the 
Brahmin  order. 

Methuselah  Blane,  a  stout  and  unlet 
tered  yeoman  came  across  the  ocean, 
perhaps  in  the  Mayflower — the  Blanes 
say  that  he  did.  For  a  few  pounds,  he 
bought  a  large  tract  of  land  in  the  new 
valley,  built  a  log-house  and  proceeded 
to  subdue  the  stones,  while  his  wife 
Meliitahel  proceeded  to  subdue  the  tem 
pers  of  her  snub-nosed  boys  and  to  pre 
pare  them  by  a  course  of  rigorous  dis 
cipline  f»r  a  life  of  vigorous  labor.  Me 
thuselah  and  Mehitabel  sleep  together  in 
one  grave,  in  the  old  graveyard,  beneath 
a  brown  tablet  from  which  time  has 
nearly  effaced  a  very  remarkable  epitaph. 
They  had  gone  back  to  dust,  and  their 
snub-nosed  boys  were  gray-haired  men, 
before  Busyville  grew  into  existence. 
Then  the  land  of  the  "Blane  boys:'  was 
cut  into  village  lots ;  at  last  the  iron  path 
of  the  rail-horse  was  laid  through  their 
domain  ;  money  flowed  into  old  stock 
ings  till  they  overflowed,  and  the  Blanes 
and  their  children  became  Brahmins  for 
ever. 

The  present  representative  of  the  race, 
Benoni  Blane,  was  a  well-enough  man, 


with  a  brain  as  neutral-tinted  and  as 
pimply  as  his  complexion.  It  was  not 
easy  to  point  to  any  mischief  he  had 
done  in  the  world,  and  equally  difficult 
to  discover  any  good. 

Had  any  one  asked  a  gqod-natured 
Brahmin :  Why  does  Benoni  Blane  stand 
at  the  head  of  his  order  in  Busyville? 
Is  he  of  large  public  spirit?  Has  he 
endowed  a  school  ?  Has  he  founded  a 
library?  Has  he  assisted  poor  young 
men  to  obtain  an  education  ?  Does  he 
support  missionaries  or  build  churches  ? 
Is  he  remarkable  for  talent,  culture,  or 
piety? 

The  good-natured  Brahmin  would 
have  replied,  "  No,  he  has  done  n<  ne  of 
these  things.  He  is  not  dUtinguished 
for  genius,  learning,  or  goodness.  Ben 
oni  Blane  is  a  man  who  minds  his  own 
business,  he  is  descended  from  one  of  the 
first  settlers — and  the  Blanes  have  al 
ways  been  well  to  do." 

To  have  had  an  infinitesimal  portion 
of  your  being  brought  across  the  Atlantic 
by  a  remote  ancestor  in  the  Mayflower — 
was,  of  course,  a  superlative  honor — it 
constituted  you  a  person  of  exalted  birth. 
But,  if  only  your  grandfather  sailed  over 
the  ocean  in  a  fast-sailing  modern-built 
ship,  oh,  that  was  a  different  matter — a 
misfortune,  if  not  a  disgrace,  which  made 
you  "  foreign,"  if  not  outlandish. 

To  the  Brahmins,  by  natural  birth 
right,  belonged  the  emoluments  and 
dignities  of  Busyville.  They  supplied 
the  town  with  professional  men ;  the 
lawyers,  doctors,  and  squires  were  all 
Bfahrnins.  The  clergymen  were  not 
equally  blessed.  Men  had  preached  in 
Busyville  whose  ancestors  did  not  sail 
to  this  country  in  the  Mayflower;  but 
they  did  not  preach  to  the  Brahmins. 
As  you  recognized  the  mansions  of  the 
Brahmins  by  their  venerable  gables, 
time-stained  walls,  and  the  deep  shadow 
of  their  patriarchal  trees,  so  you  knew 
the  ambitious  "  villas  "  of  the  wealthy 
Bustlers  by  their  stark,  staring  newness, 
by  their  tumorous  bay  windows,  astound 
ing  porticoes,  and  stunning  cupolas, 
threatening  the  frail  fabrics  beneath  with 
constant  annihilation.  But  if  these  rich 
Bustlers  did  not  know  the  vulgar  from 


A  WOMAN'S  RIGHT. 


25 


the  beautiful,  they  had  ample  means  to 
educate  their  children  to  higher  tastes. 
Occasionally  a  decayed  Brahmin  family 
were  thankful  to  sell  their  magnificent 
prerogatives,  and  uncomfortable  poverty 
for  new  money  and  a  new  domain,  even 
if  they  had  to  accept  with  it  a  new  name. 

"With  such  recompense,  more  than  one 
fair  Brahmin  concluded  that  she  could 
aiford  to  ignore  the  obscurity  of  her  hus 
band's  ancestry,  while  she  still  retained 
the  splendid  memories  of  her  own  !  The 
wealthy  Bustlers  who  thus  allied  them 
selves  with  the  "  first  people  "  invariably 
turned  their  backs  upon  their  own  class, 
and  lifted  their  eyes  and  aspirations  alike 
toward  the  Brahmins.  But  the  small 
Bustler.*,  never  rich,  always  comfortable, 
who  were  perfectly  satisfied  to  remain 
Bustlers  forever,  were  largely  in  majori 
ty,  and  it  was  they  who  gave  to  Busy- 
ville  its  peculiar  character  and  tone.  On 
every  corner  stood  their  little  work 
shops,  all  astir  with  the  hum  and  whirr 
of  machinery,  with  the  buzz  of  busy 
hands  and  voices.  The  streets  were 
lined  with  their  houses;  little  houses 
glaring  in  vivid  white  and  green — pretty 
"  pine  boxes  "  in  which  they  flourished 
in  happy  mediocrity. 

The  boys  and  girls  worked  together  in 
the  shops;  made  love,  married,  and  then 
with  lamlable  thriff,  made  haste  to  earn 
and  bnild  one  of  these  habitations  for 
themselves  and  their  children.  Thus  as 
the  years  went  on,  little  streets  reached 
out  over  the  meadows,  and  new  white 
boxes  were  set  in  parallel  rows,  blister 
ing  and  blinking  at  each  other  in  the  sun. 
Each  house,  as  it  stored,  beheld  its  coun 
terpart  in  its  neighbor,  and  all  of  them 
alike,  in  their  smallness,  and  sameness, 
and  snug  comfort,  reflected  fairly  the 
average  condition  and  character  of  their 
owners.  The  matrons  of  these  boxes 
found  them  quite  large  enough  for  their 
small  ambitions  and  emulations.  "Whose 
house  should  be  paid  for  earliest ;  who 
should  have  the  prettiest  garden,  the 
brightest  "  three-ply  "  carpet,  the  most 
wonderful  "  riz  cake,"  the  most  trans 
cendent  baby,  were  all  objects  dear  to 
their  hearts,  and  t<>  them  worthy  of  all 
desire  and  struggle.  To  see  all  the  fam- 


.  ily  cotton  flying  on  the  clothes-Hnes  by 
breakfast  time  each  Monday  morning 
was  a  triumph,  whose  winning  called 
more  than  one  housewife  to  her  wash- 
tub  a  little  past  midnight.  Every  chore 
was  done,  and  she  working  for  the  shops 
and  rocking  baby,  before  it  was  time  for 
her  to  get  her  dinner.  In  the  long  after 
noons,  many  little  shiny-topped  baby 
Wagons,  precisely  alike,  issued  from  the 
gates,  drawn  by  mother-hands.  These 
matrons  then  found  the  recreation  of 
their  day,  in  going  to  each  other's  hous 
es,  comparing  babies,  and  serving  to  each 
other  delectable  dishes  of  small  gossip. 
"Women  endowed  with  such  a  remark 
able  amount  of  New  England  "  faculty  " 
that  they  could  dispatch  every  household 
affair  of  their  own  in  one  fourth  of  the 
day,  necessarily  had  some  time  left  for 
the  affairs  of  their  neighbors. 

Socially,  the  Brahmins  and  Bustlers 
were  as  far  apart  as  if  they  lived  on 
separate  planets.  The  shop-girl  from 
her  window  watching  the  academy  girl 
pass  to  school,  mocked  her  dainty  airs, 
and  when  she  met  her  on  the  street  with 
"  I'm  as  good  as  you  are,"  toss  of  head, 
took  care  that  the  pretty  Brahmin  did 
not  have  more  than  her  share  of  the 
sidewalk.  Meanwhile,  the  Brahmin 
averted  her  pretty  nose,  and  gathered  up 
her  delicate  robes,  lest  they  should  be 
contaminated  by  the  touch  of  the  work 
ing-frock  of  "that  dreadful  shopTgirl." 
Yet  both  of  these  were  American  maid 
ens,  Christian  maidens,  born  in  New 
England  Busyville. 

The  Bustlers  and  the  Brahmins  rarely 
worshipped  God  together.  The  Brah 
mins  were  all  orthodox,  and  praised 
their  Maker  in  a  proper  manner  in  an 
imposing  structure.  From  serene  heights 
they  looked  down  with  pious  pity  or  dis 
gust,  according  to  their  dispositions,  on 
the  happy  Bustlers,  whose  devotions 
they  deemed  "of  an  unnecessary,  vocifer 
ous,  and  hysterical  character.  All  the 
time,  the  Bustlers  considered  themselves 
not  only  sound  in  faith,  but  as  a  city  set 
upon  a  very  high  hill  in  the  spiritual 
kingdom,  with  light  enough  in  it  to  il 
luminate  the  entire  race.  With  holy 
triumph  they  referred  to  the  place  and 


26 


EIBEXK : 


the  moraent  where  they  "got  religion." 
With  warm  compassion  they  prayed  for 
the  groping  Brahmins,  who  only  ''hoped 
that  they  had  a  hope."  And  for  no  one 
with  so  profound  an  unction  as  for  old 
Dr.  Drier,  the  Brahmin  divine,  the 
meekest  and  most  blameless  of  men,  yet 
one  so  utterly  undemonstrative  and  un 
like  themselves,  that  they  were  sure 
"  he  know'd  nuthin'  what  religion  wuz." 

Thus,  the  Brahmins  ignored  the  Bus 
tlers,  and  the  Bustlers  alternately  envied 
and  pitied  the  Brahmins.  Each  pos 
sessed  qualities  which  the  others  lacked, 
which,  had  they  been  blended  together, 
would  have  made  a  more  harmonious 
type  of  manhood  and  of  womanhood. 
The  Brahmins  needed  the  stamina  and 
activity  of  the  Bustlers.  The  Bustlers 
lacked  the  refinement  and  capacity  for 
repose  which  crowned  the  Brahmins. 
But  there  could  be  no  exchange  of  gifts 
and  graces,  for  in  social  life  they  rarely 
met,  and  never  mingled.  Neither  class 
ever  knew  half  the  good  that  was  in  the 
other. 

Hero  came  bounding  down  the  road  to 
meet  them.  Mary  Vale,  with  Win  on 
one  side  and  Pansy  on  the  other,  stood 
outside  of  the  gate.  Again  the  loose 
wheels  of  the  old  buggy  rattled,  and  for 
once  in  her  life  Muggins  hurried. 


Eirene  had  come  home,  had  come 
home  to  spend  Thanksgiving — what  joy 
there  was  in  the  dormer  cottage. 

A  month  had  wrought  a  great  change 
in  the  aspect  of  nature.  The  maples 
had  dropped  all  their  scarlet  and  amber, 
and  stood  discrowned  in  the  wood.  A 
few  garnet  leaves  still  clung  to  the  shel 
tered  boughs  of  the  oaks.  The  larches 
in  the  yard  still  waved  their  feathery 
plumes,  and  the  pines  on  the  hill  still 
swayed  their  evergreen  branches  with 
the  old  soughing  sound.  The  English 
ivy,  dappled  and  warm,  still  festooned 
the  brown  walls  and  dormer  windows; 
all  else  was  bleak  and  bare.  Piles  of 
wind-whipped,  rain-beaten  leaves  filled 
the  hollows  of  the  road.  The  mari 
golds  and  dahlias  h.'id  ceased  to  parade 
their  splendor,  lying  prone  and  ragged 
upon  the  ground.  Even  the  crysanthe- 
mums  had  vanished,  and  now  smiled 
in  snug  boxes  in  the  sitting-room  win 
dows. 

How  was  it  with  Eirene  ?  Had  she 
changed,  as  well  as  the  garden  ?  Do  we 
ever  come  back  from  the  world  to  any 
beloved  spot  just  the  being  that  we  left 
it? 

One  moment  in  her  mother's  arms — 
then  the  happy  little  company  followed 
Eirene  into  the  house. 


A  WOMAN'S  RIGHT. 


m. 


GOING   HOME. 


EVBRT  thing  was  bright  for  Thanksgiv 
ing.  The  white  curtains  were  newly 
hung,  branches  of  laurel  and  holly, 
bright  with  scarlet  berries,  garnished 
mantel  and  pictures ;  little  Sir  Don, 
the  canary,  was  trilling  a  throat- 
breaking  welcome  amid  a  bower  of 
greenery,  while  his  wife,  as  she 
could  not  sing,  went  plunging  into  her 
glass  bath-tub  for  joy.  Out  from  the 
pantry  issued  a  compound  of  savory 
odors,  in  which  an  epicure  could  have 
detected  the  aroma  of  roast  fowls,  of 
mince  and  pumpkin  pies,  and  spice- cakes. 

"  What  have  you  brought  for  me  ? 
Have  you  brought  me  the  new  frock? 
I've  waited  and  waited !  "  cried  the  ex 
cited  Pansy,  her  nervous  little  fingers 
already  trying  to  open  Eirene's  satchel. 

"Is  that  all  you've  wanted?  How 
selfish  you  are,"  said  Win,  in  a  stern  tone 
of  reproof;  "  I  should  think  that  you'd 
want  to  see  Rene." 

"  I  do  want  to  see  her  as  much  as  you 
do,  Mister  Win.  But  she  promised  me  a 
frock.  You  want  to  see  what  she  has 
brought  you  ;  I  know  you  do." 

"No,  I  don't  want  Rene  to  spend  a 
cent  for  me.  It's  bad  enough  that  she 
has  had  to  go  away  and  work,  without 
spending  her  earnings  for  us,  Pansy." 

"  But  I  must  spend  something  for  you, 
— see  what  I  have  brought  you  1 "  said 
Eirene,  her  face  all  flushed  with  happi 
ness,  as  she  took  a  little  key  from  her 
pocket  and  unlocked  the  satchel,  taking 
out  first  a  red,  rotund  volume.  "  See, 
Win,  this  is  the  book  you  wanted  so 
much,  '  Washington  and  his  Generals.'  " 

Win's  dark  eyes  kindled.  He  did 
want  this  book  so  very  much!  Could  he 
find  fault  if  his  sister  had  spent  her 
money  to  gratify  this  desire  of  his  heart? 
"  O  Eirene  !  some  time !  "  Ho  did  not 
finish  the  sentence,  but  he  thought— 


"  Some  time  I  will  repay  her,  she  always 
remembers  me." 

Pansy  had  commenced  to  pout.  Why 
should  any  body  be  remembered  before 
this  little  princess  ? 

Win  had  a  book!  Where  was  her 
blue  dress  ?  "  She  didn't  believe  she  had 
any,  there !  " 

"  You  promised,  you  did  !  "  cried  the 
child  with  a  passionate  sob. 

"  Yes,  and  here  it  is,"  said  Eirene. 
"See,  haven't  I  brought  you  a  pretty 
frock  ? " 

Like  a  rainbow  through  a  shower 
looked  forth  the  glittering  eyes  of  the 
child.  Pansy  had  never  had  such  a 
dress,  had  never  seen  one  even  half  BO 
lovely;  it  was  merino,  blue  as  the  sky. 

"  Azure  aud  amber.  See,  mother," 
said  the  happy  Eirene,  as  she  laid  a  soft 
fold  of  the  fabric  against  the  gold  of  the 
child's  hair.  u  What  a  lovely  contrast ! 
Oh,  I  must  stay  at  home  long  enough  to 
make  it  for  you,  Pansy ;  "  and  with  an 
impulse  of  love,  she  threw  her  arms 
around  her  sister  and  kissed  her. 

The  mother's  impulse  had  been  to  set 
the  teakettle  in  the  polished  stove,  to 
draw  out  the  table  and  cover  it  with  her 
whitest  cloth ;  and  when  Eirene  looked 
around,  she  was  already  setting  some  of 
the  viands  which  her  loving  hands  had 
compounded  for  her  absent  child,  while 
she  thought  of  the  coming  of  the  most 
joyful  of  all  Thanksgiving  days. 

Just  then,  Lowell  Vale  having  paid 
his  last  necessary  attention  to  Muggins, 
came  in  to  behold  his  happy  household 
group. 

"See,  father!  see  my  new  dress! 
Rene  brought  it  to  me,"  cried  the  exult 
ant  Pansy,  as,  wrapped  in  the  blue  me 
rino,  she  stood  perched  on  tip-toe  upon  a 
chair,  surveying  herself  in  the  looking- 
glass. 

The  father's  eyes  grew  misty  as  he  took 


28 


EIKEXE  : 


the  gifts  into  his  hands  one  by  one — the 
blue  dress,  the  red  book — and  then  look 
ed  from  one  child  to  the  other.  "Rene 
earned  these  for  you,"  he  said;  "will 
Pansy  ever  earn  any  thing  for  Rene  ?  " 

Pansy  had  not  thought  of  that.  "I 
can't  work ;  'Rene  caw,"  was  the  little 
beauty's  conclusive  reply. 

It  seemed  a  rich  compensation  for 
separation  and  absence — the  dear  home- 
1-1  pper  that  came  after.  To  hear  her 
mother  say,  as  she  set  some  delicate  dish 
before  her,  "I  made  this  for  you ;  "  to 
be  the  object  of  so  much  tender  solici 
tude,  of  so  many  loving  looks  and  words, 
brought  tears  into  Eirene's  eyes.  It 
made  her  remember  the  last  four  weeks 
of  her  life,  in  which  she  had  sat  a  scarce 
ly  tolerated  presence  at  the  dismal  table 
of  strangers. 

She  knew  that  she  had  felt  strangely 
lonely  at  that  table.  But  the  neglect 
and  unkindness  wliich  she  had  received, 
came  to  her  now  as  a  positive  thought 
for  the  first  time,  forced  into  her  mind 
by  contrast  to  all  this  home-love.  The 
beloved  child,  the  unloved  stranger — she 
knew,  now,  what  it  was  to  be  both. 

"  Oh,  it  is  so  pleasant  to  be  at  home 
once  more !  "  she  said  with  overflowing 
eyes.  "  Not  but  what  I  have  had  every 
thing  necessary  at  Mr.  Mallane'?,  but  it 
is  not  like  being  with  you  all  at  home, 
you  know." 

She  forbore  to  complain ;  she  did  not 
say  once  that  she  had  been  lonesome,  or 
homesick.  In  answer  to  all  her  mother's 
anxious  inqu;ries,  she  said  that  she  had 
had  every  thing  that  she  had  needed.  She 
had  a  comfortable  room.  The  Mallanes 
were  good  people.  It  was  better  for 
her  to  be  with  the  family,  because  out 
of  the  shop,  she  had  no  one  to  disturb 
her  in  her  studies.  It  would  be  quite 
different  at  the  boarding-house,  the  girls 
were  very  gay  and  noisy.  She  did  not 
find  her  work  hard;  indeed,  she  was 
perfectly  satisfied. 

Thus  she  silenced  every  misgiving  of 
her  mother's  heart,  and  no  shadow  fell 
on  the  happy  supper  of  Thanksgiving  eve. 

"Tell  me  about  the  children,"  said 
Pansy,  with  her  pretty  lisp.  "  Is  Grace 
Mallaue  so  pretty  ?  Has  she  very  fine 


frocks  ?  Any  finer  than  mine  ? "  And 
the  dimpled  hand  smoothed  fondly  the 
blue  merino,  which  she  had  laid  within 
arm's  reach,  before  sitting  down  to  her 
supper. 

Then  Eirene  told  her  sister  every 
pleasant  thing  that  she  could  remember 
about  Grace  Mallane,  and  all  the  "  chil 
dren," — save  one.  She  scarcely  men 
tioned  Paul.  She  did  not  know  why, 
but  it  did  not  seem  easy  to  talk  of  him , 
perhaps  because  he  was  not  at  all  a  child. 

How  long  they  lingered  around  the 
little  table!  At  last  Eirene,  with  won- 
drously  smiling  eyes,  took  from  her 
pocket  her  little  purse,  and  poured  its 
contents  upon  the  table. 

"  It  is  not  much,  but  there  will  be 
more  another  month.  I  could  not  come 
home  for  the  first  time,  without  bringing 
Win  and  Pansy  something.  But  I  intend 
to  be  very  saving;  and  if  you  are  pros 
pered,  father,  the  old  place  will  be 
saved." 

"  But  what  have  you  bought  for  your 
self,  child?  "  asked  the  mother,  with  the 
suggestion  of  tears  in  her  voice. 

"  Nothing,"  said  Eirene.  "  I  have  not 
needed  any  thing." 

"  We  thank  God  for  onr  child,"  said 
Lowell  Vale,  as  soon  as  he  could  com 
mand  his  voice ;  "  but  we  cannot  take  all 
your  earnings,  Eirene.  What  yon  do 
not  need,  put  in  the  bank  at  Busyville. 
Another  year's  crops  such  as  this  year 
has  brought  us,  and  Hillside  will  be 
saved.  If  not, — for  your  mother's  sake, 
and  your's  and  the  children's — that  we 
may  not  lose  our  home,  we  must  take 
what  you  have  saved ;  but  not  unless  we 
must.  If  not,  it  will  pay  for  you  at  the 
academy  at  Busyville.  You  can  go  to 
school  a  long  time,  Eirene." 

Eirene  seeing  that  it  was  hard  for 
either  father  or  mother  to  talk  about 
money,  slipped  out  of  the  room  to  look 
for  Win.  She  proceeded  to  the  old  barn, 
within  which  she  had  seen  him  vanish  a 
few  moments  before. 

It  was  chilly  without,  but  as  she 
opened  the  door,  the  air  within  seemed 
warm  and  sweet  with  the  smothered 
fragrance  floating  out  from  piles  of 
clov«ry  hay.  As  she  entered,  old  Bios- 


A  WOMAN'S  RIGHT. 


29 


Bom  and  young  Daisy,  who  stood  quietly 
waiting  to  be  milked,  rubbed  their  noses 
against  her  hand,  and  Muggins,  in  her 
stall,  looked  up  and  whinnied  a  welcome 
over  her  half-eaten  oats.  Eirene  climbed 
up  above  the  great  mounds  of  hay  into 
the  loft !  She  knew  Win's  haunts ; 
knew  that  after  the  November  rain  and 
damp  had  fallen  on  the  beloved  woods, 
his  chosen  sanctuary  was  this  little 
chamber  in  the  loft.  It  had  one  window 
looking  out  upon  the  west;  upon  the 
great  hills  of  amethyst,  behind  which  the 
sun  went  down.  Against  the  rough 
boards  hung  Win's  rifle  and  all  the  ac 
coutrements  of  hunting.  On  the  other 
side,  some  hanging  shelves,  neatly  cov 
ered  with  paper,  were  filled  with  Win's 
books — more  relics  of  the  Vale  library. 
And  here,  with  the  pale  late  rays  of  the 
November  sun  falling  on  his  dark  hair, 
with  Hero  by  his  side,  stretched  upon 
some  fresh  hay,  lay  Win,  devouring  with 
his  eyes  "Washington  and  his  Generals." 
He  started  half  abashed,  half  delighted, 
as  he  saw  his  sister  Eirene's  face,  her 
loving  wistful  eyes.  But  Win  was  not 
demonstrative ;  he  was  strangely  shy 
and  reticent,  even  with  those  whom  he 
knew  and  loved  the  best.  The  love 
which  he  felt  for  his  sister,  Eirene,  was 
nearly  blended  with  worship.  She  was 
finer  and  lovelier  to  him  than  any  other 
being  in  the  world.  He  would  sit  and 
gaze  on  her  with  a  strange  mixed  feeling 
of  awe,  admiration,  and  love,  which 
could  not  be  expressed  in  language.  It 
was  the  involuntary  reverence  for  wo 
manhood,  born  of  the  unconscious  man 
hood  stirring  in  the  boy's  heart. 

"  Hero,  will  you  take  up  all  the  room 
when  you  see  who  has  come?  "  he  said 
to  his  dog,  as  he  jumped  up  and  made 
room  for  Eirene  on  the  hay  by  his  side. 
When  she  was  seated  he  opened  his  new 
book,  then  looking  up,  said  abruptly, 

"  Eene,  do  you  think  that  there  will 
ever  be  another  war  in  this  country?  " 

"  Why,  Win,  how  can  there  be  ?  Why 
do  you  think  of  sucli  a  thing  ?  " 

"  Because  I  would  rather  be  a  soldier 
than  any  thing  else  in  the  world." 

"  Oh,  Win,  how  could  I  live  and  think 
of  you  suffering  all  that  a  soldier  must ! 


I  was  reading  the  other  day  what  the 
soldiers  suffered  in  the  Crimea,  and  I 
thanked  God  when  I  thought  that  there 
never  could  be  war  in  this  country. 
England  will  never  trouble  us  again. 
France  likes  us.  Who  else  could  fight 
this  country? " 

u  We  may  fight  each  other,  some  time, 
Eirene.  I  never  should  have  thought  of 
such  a  thing,  but  the  other  day  I  found 
among  the  old  books,  a  pamphlet  with 
the  great  speeches  which  Webster  and 
Hayne  made  in  the  Senate,  in  1830 — be 
fore  we  were  born.  I  read  them  through, 
and  learned  an  extract  from  each  for  a 
declamation  in  school.  There  are  sen 
tences  in  them  which  keep  ringing 
through  my  mind.  Do  you  want  to  hear 
them,  Eene  ? " 

"Yes,"  said  his  sister,  with  a  deep  in 
terest  kindling  through  her  eyes. 

The  boy  arose,  and  with  all  a  boy's 
unction  of  feeling — and  less  than  most 
boys'  stiffness  of  declamation- — with  a 
rich  voice  that  made  the  old  barn  ring, 
he  exclaimed : 

"  Good  God !  Mr.  President,  has  it  come 
to  this?  Do  gentlemen  estimate  the 
value  of  the  Union  at  so  low  a  price, 
that  they  will  not  even  make  one  effort 
to  bind  the  States  together  with  the 
cords  of  affection  ?  And  has  it  come  to 
this?  Is  this  the  spirit  in  which  this 
government  is  to  be  administered  ?  If 
so,  let  me  tell  you,  gentlemen,  the  seeds 
of  dissolution  are  already  sown,  and  our 
children  will  reap  the  bitter  fruits." 

"Now  shall  I  recite  Webster's  an 
swer?"  asked  the  excited  boy.  And 
Eirene  answered  "  yes,"  gazing  on  liim 
as  if  she  saw  him  in  a  dream,  when  he 
once  more  exclaimed : 

"I  have  not  allowed  myself,  Sir,  to 
look  beyond  the  Union  to  see  what  mijzht 
be  hidden  in  the  dark  recesses  behind. 
I  have  not  coolly  weighed  the  chances  of 
preserving  liberty,  when  the  bonds  that 
unite  us  together  shall  be  broken  asun 
der.  I  have  not  accustomed  myself  to 
hang  over  the  precipice  of  disunion,  to 
see  whether  with  my  short  sight  I  can 
fathom  the  depth  of  the  abyss  below. 

"  While  the  Union  lasts,  we  have  high, 
exciting,  gratifying  prospects  spread 


30 


EIRENE : 


out  before  us,  for  us  and  our  children. 
Beyond  that,  I  seek  not  to  penetrate 
the  veil.  God  grant  my  vision  never 
may  be  opened  on  what  lies  behind. 

"When  my  eyes  shall  be  turned  to 
behold,  for  the  last  time,  the  sun  in 
heaven,  may  I  not  see  him  shining  on 
the  broken  and  dishonored  fragments 
of  a  once  plorious  Union  ;  on  States  dis 
severed,  discordant,  belligerent ;  on  a 
land  rent  with  civil  feuds,  or  drenched 
it  may  be  with  fraternal  blood ! 

"Let  their  last  feeble  and  lingering 
glance,  rather,  behold  the  gorgeous  en 
sign  of  the  Kepublic,  now  known  and 
honored  throughout  the  earth — still  full 
high  advanced,  its  arms  and  trophies 
streaming  in  their  original  lustre,  not  a 
stripe  erased  or  polluted,  nor  a  single 
star  obscured — bearing  for  its  motto  no 
euch  miserable  interrogatory  as,  What  is 
all  this  worth?  Nor  those  other  words 
of  delusion  and  folly  —  Liberty  first, 
and  Union  afterwards;  but  everywhere 
spread  all  over  in  characters  of  living 
light  blazing  on  all  its  ample  folds,  as  they 
float  over  the  sea  and  over  the  land,  and 
in  every  wind  under  the  whole  heavens, 
that  other  sentiment,  true  to  every 
American  heart  —  Liberty  and  Union, 
now  nnd  forever,  one  and  inseparable !  " 

"How  you  feel  all  this,"  said  Eirene, 
as  "Win  sat  down,  with  the  perspiration 
on  his  face  and  a  scarlet  spot  on  his 
cheeks.  "  I  have  never  thought  of  any 
of  these  things.  All  that  I  have  thought 
of  our  country  is,  that  it  is  beautiful, 
and  great,  and  free,  and  must  always 
remain  as  it  is  now  —  only  growing 
greater. 

"  But  I  have  thought  a  great  deal 
about  you,  Win,  and  about  your  future 
life ;  I  want  you  to  go  to  college.  I  want 
you  to  study  a  profession,  and  be  happy 
and  successful.  I  am  going  to  help  you : 
I  am  older  than  you,  you  know." 

"Eirene,  I  don't  want  you  to  help  me. 
I  am  a  boy,  and  ought  to  be  able  to  help 
myself.  But  I  have  heard  father  say 
that  no  Vale  has  been  successful  for  gen 
erations.  I  don't  know  whether  I  could 
get  on  in  the  world  any  better  than 
father  or  not;  but  I  know  that  I  could 
be  a  soldier,  and  fight  for  my  country." 


"  But,  Win,  if  the  great  words  which 
you  have  just  spoken  should  come  true, 
you  would  have  to  fight  against  your 
own  countrymen.  That  would  be  dread 
ful." 

"  My  own  countrymen  ?  They  would 
not  be  my  own  countrymen  if  they  had 
broken  the  Union.  I  think  it  would  be 
splendid  to  fight  for  that." 

"  I  hope  it  will  never  need  your  life, 
Win.  You  have  been  reading  'Wash 
ington  and  his  Generals  '  till  you  want 
to  be  a  hero.  You  can  be  heroic  without 
a  war." 

"  Rene,  you  think  that  the  Union  will 
never  come  to  an  end,"  said  Win,  still 
pervaded  by  Webster  and  Hayne. 
"  Don't  you  remember,  in  the  histories 
that  we  read  last  winter,  each  one  of  the 
old  republics  had  something  in  it  which 
destroyed  it  ?  " 

"  Yes  ;  but  they  were  heathen  repub 
lics.  This  is  a  Christian  nation.  WTin." 

"  Yes,  I  suppose  it  is,"  said  Win,  du 
biously.  "  But  it  don't  seem  to  me  very 
Christian.  Its  great  men  are  fighting 
all  the  time,  I  should  think  by  the  news 
papers.  The  South  has  grown  rich  and 
saucy  living  on  negroes  ;  and  the  North 
has  grown  rich  and  greedy  on  manufac 
tures  and  trade.  We  are  down  on  the 
South  for  its  Slavery ;  and  the  South  is 
down  on  us  for  our  Tariff.  We  pity  the 
ignorant  Southerners,  and  they  despise 
us  peddling  Yankees ;  and  we'll  come 
to  a  fight  some  day,  or  I  don't  under 
stand  what  I  read." 

"Don't  you  think  that  we  are  too 
young  to  understand  these  great  ques 
tions,  or  to  tell  what  is  going  to  happen? 
If  this  country  is  ever  to  be  torn  by  war, 
I  don't  want  to  think  of  it  till  I  must. 
Let  us  talk  of  something  cheerful,  Win," 

"  I  don't  want  to  make  you  feel  bad, 
Rene,  and  I'm  sure  I  don't  know  what 
•will  happen  to  the  country.  But  the 
only  thing  I  feel  sure  of  is,  that  some 
day  I  shall  be  a  soldier." 

There  was  a  strange  commingling  of 
incredulity  and  sorrow  in  Eirene's  gaze 
as  Win  uttered  these  words. 

The  possibility  of  Win's  being  a  sol 
dier  had  never  entered  her  mind.  She 
did  not  believe  that  he  would  ever  be 


A  WOMAN'S  BIGHT. 


81 


one,  yet  the  mere  suggestion  was 
enough  to  fill  her  eyes  with  a  brooding 
sadness. 

As  they  sat,  gazing  upon  each  other, 
they  looked  strangely  alike  —  this  boy 
and  girl.  Win's  forehead  was  brown, 
his  cheeks  bronzed  by  exposure;  while 
Eirene's  low  brow  was  white,  and  on  her 
cheek  trembled  the  delicate  bloom  of  the 
blush-rose.  But  both  had  the  same  wavy 
hair  of  nutty-brown,  touched  with  gold, 
and  the  same  mouth,  in  whose  exquisite 
curves  trembled  all  the  sensibility,  the 
purity  of  an  entire  race.  Their  eyes,  too, 
were  as  the  eyes  of  one  face  —  in  their 
oneness  of  expression  consisted  the  re 
markable  likeness  which  each  bore  to  the 
other.  They  were  the  Vale  eyes,  of  a 
limpid  brown,  winsome  and  winning. 
They  were  not  melancholy  eyes,  for  they 
overflowed  with  light  —  not  with  the 
light  which  exults  and  triumphs,  but 
rather  sthat  wliich  hopes  and  believes — 
the  light  which  kindles  the  eyes  of  mar 
tyrs  and  of  saints.  They  were  not  rest 
less,  anxious  eyes,  they  were  serene  in 
their  very  wistfulness,  yet  they  had  a 
deep,  far  gaze,  as  if  looking  on  toward 
something  distant,  for  some  joy  that 
they  had  missed,  or  for  some  treasure 
which  they  had  never  found  ;  not  that 
these  young  lives  were  conscious  of  any 
such  longing,  but  their  eyes  reflected 
the  souls  of  their  ancestors.  It  was  as 
if  Aubrey  and  Alice,  and  Lowell  and 
Mary  Vale,  were  all  looking  out  from 
the  eyes  of  these  children.  They  were 
sealed  with  the  family  soul,  they  were 
signs  of  the  family  fate.  Superlative 
eyes,  suffused  with  soft  sunshine,  they 
still  suggested  sadness  rather  than  smiles. 
In  their  deep  lovingness  they  drew  hearts 
toward  them  like  magnets,  yet  in  their 
too  deep  tenderness  you  read  the  pro 
phecy  of  tears,  not  of  triumph. 

As  they  sat,  the  setting  sun  sent  his 
last  rays  above  the  hills.  They  poured 
through  the  little  window  of  the  barn, 
and  covered  the  children  sitting  upon 
the  hay  with  glory.  Through  the  chinks 
of  the  loose  boards  they  floated  in,  and 
for  a  moment  seemed  suspended  in  the 
form  of  a  cross  over  their  heads.  Was 
it  the  augury  of  destiny? 


TWO    CHUMS. 

That  same  sunset  which  made  th« 
old  barn-loft  glitter  like  the  chamber  of 
a  palace,  lit  up  the  venerable  walls  and 
windows  of  old  Harvard  just  as  two 
young  men  met  in  one  of  the  innumer 
able  walks  which  intersect  each  other  in 
the  grounds  of  the  University. 

"  "Well,  old  boy,  you  have  come  at  last," 
said  one,  as  he  switched  the  sleeve  of 
the  other  with  a  rattan  cane ;  he  was  a 
small,  fashionably-dressed,  blase  young 
man.  "Justin?" 

"Yes,  in  the  last  train,"  answered 
Paul  Mallane,  who,  from  his  altitude  of 
six  feet,  looked  down  upon  his  insignif 
icant  companion,  as  handsome  and  as 
nonchalant  as  ever. 

"Why  didn't  you  stay  up-country  al . 
winter,  and  be  done  with  it?  You  have 
stayed  so  deuced  long  I  have  made  up 
my  mind  that  something  has  been  to 
pay.  Come,  now !  Why  haven't  you 
been  in  more  of  a  d — 1  of  a  hurry  ?  " 

"  I  thought  I'd  stay  and  help  my 
Governor  take  inventories  and  cast  ao 
counts." 

"  A  likely  story  1  You've  been  touch 
ed,  I  know.  Nothing  but  a  girl  could 
have  kept  you  so  long  in  a  town  that  you 
curse.  And  the  term  commenced,  and 
all  your  chums  eating  nice  little  sup 
pers,  and  enjoying  all  sorts  of  nice  little 
pleasures.  I'll  swear  that  nothing  but  a 
girl  conld  have  kept  you  from  us  a  whole 
month." 

"Pshaw,  Dick,  I  am  not  always  chas 
ing  a  girl's  shadow,  because  you  are. 
You  don't  believe,  then,  that  I  have 
turned  dutiful  son,  and  have  been  post 
ing  my  father's  books  ?  " 

"  Not  I.  Come,  my  boy,  you  may 
just  as  well  own  up  first  as  last.  You 
want  my  advice;  you  know  yoxi  do. 
Who  is  it?  Not  pretty  Tilly?  She'd 
never  wake  you  up.  Come,  now ! " 
And  the  wise  old-young  man  slipped 
his  arm  into  Paul's,  and  they  sauntered 
on  toward  the  colleges. 

"  You  are  a  bore,  Dick  Prescott,  yet  I 
suppose  that  I  do  need  your  advice,"  said 
Paul,  in  a  half  annoyed,  half  impatient 
tone.  "  I  want  you  to  suppose  a  case. 
Suppose  you  should  meet  a  young  lady, 


32 


EIRENE  : 


to  you  exquisitely  lovely,  not  handsome 
in  just  the  flesh -and-blood  sense,  but  in 
figure,  in  coloring,  in  expression,  and  in 
manners  to  you  perfectly  lovely  " — here 
Paul  paused  as  if  he  were  interrupted. 

"  I  have  it ;  'to  you  perfectly  lovely  ! ' 
Go  on,  I  am  supposing  the  case,"  said 
Dick. 

"  "Well,  suppose  you  should  meet  her 
in  a  place,  and  in  company  utterly  at 
variance  with  her  nature,  in  the  midst 
of  a  crowd  of  ignorant,  noisy  girls.  Sup 
pose  that  you  should  meet  her  in 

well,  in  your  father's  shop:  what  would 
you  do  ?  " 

Dick  Prescott  broke  into  a  loud 
laugh.  "Prince  Mallane,"  he  said,  "I 
did  not  think  that  you  could  be  such  a 
spooney." 

"I  don't  know  why  you  should  call 
me  a  spooney,"  Paul  replied,  angrily; 
"  I  have  only  asked  you  to  suppose  a 
case." 

"  Suppose  a  case  ?  I  can't  suppose  any 
such  case.  I  can  suppose  a  perfect  lady, 
and  a  perfect  beauty;  but  I  can't  sup 
pose  her  at  work  in  a  shop  in  the  midst 
of  a  pack  of  noisy,  ignorant  girls.  It's 
all  in  your  eye,  Prince.  She  is  just  like 
all  the  rest,  only  you  are  touched." 

"  Touched !  by  heaven,  I  am  touched," 
exclaimed  Paul,  in  a  passion.  "  I've 
never  been  in  16ve  in  my  life — although 
I've  tried  to  be,  hard  enough.  I  am  not 
in  love  now;  but  I  am  haunted  by  a 
face.  Her  eyes  follow  me  wherever  I 
go.  If  I  have  a  mean  thought  it  seems 
as  if  she  saw  it,  and  the  pure  face  makes 
me  ashamed  and  uncomfortable ; — but 
only  uncomfortable  when  I  feel  that  I 
am  mean  and  unworthy.  No  woman's 
face  ever  made  me  feel  so  before.  I 
can't  get  rid  of  the  look  in  her  eyes. 
But  then  I  have  not  tried  very  hard.  I 
am  willing  to  own  up,  I  have  stayed  in 
Busyville  a  whole  month,  just  to  look 
at  it." 

"  Do  you  think  me  verdant  enough  to 
believe  that?"  asked  Dick.  4(You  have 
made  love,  and  proposed  an  elopement,  I 
will  bet  my  head." 

"  Then  you  will  lose  it.  I  spoke  to  her 
the  first  day  I  went  into  the  shops,  but  it 
was  bef  >re  I  saw  her  face.  I  wanted  to 


see  what  she  was  like.  She  turned  and 
looked,  and  her  surprise  and  her  face 
made  me  so  ashamed  of  my  impertinence 
that  I  never  more  than  bowed  to  her 
afterwards.  You  may  laugh  if  you 
please ;  I  am  telling  the  truth.  As  we 
were  situated  I  could  not  meet  her  as  I 
did  other  ladies ;  and  I  would  not,  in 
deed  I  could  not,  talk  to  her  as  I  did  to 
the  rest  of  the  shop-girls." 

"  Well,  Prince,  I  never  expected  to  see 
you  so  far  gone.  That's  all  I  have  to 
say.  What  do  you  propose  to  do?  " 

"That's  just  it.  What  am  I  to  do? 
To  me  she  is  a  lady  ;  to  every  body  else 
she  is  a  shop-girl.  I  don't  go  with  shop 
girls,  I  can't  go  with  her;  it  would 
drive  my  mother  mad.  Besides,  I  can't 
afford  it.  I  am  not  an  only  son,  like 
you,  Dick.  I  shall  only  have  an  eighth 
of  my  Governor's  money  ;  and  lie  is  not 
a  millionaire,  like  your  parental  relative. 
I  am  not  going  to  begin  life  in  any 
shabby  way  ;  I  must  marry  either  posi 
tion  or  a  fortune  when  I  do  marry.  Con 
found  it!  I  can  never  propose  to  this  lit 
tle  girl,  if  I  want  to.  Not  that  I  am  at 
all  sure  that  I  shall  ever  want  to,  but 
it  maddens  me  to  think  that  I  can't,  if  I 
do.  One  thing  I  never  could  bear — that 
is,  to  be  balked." 

"Mallane,  you  talk  like  an  idiot.  I 
never  before  suspected  you  of  being 
such  a  fool,"  said  Dick.  "  You  can't  pro 
pose  to  this  belle  of  the  shops,  of  course 
you  can't.  Of  course  you  don't  want  to ; 
you  wouldn't  if  you  could.  You  are  only 
mad  at  the  fact  that  you  can't,  that's 
all.  You  cannot  perpetrate  matrimony. 
but  you  can  amuse  yourself,  that's 
enough  better.  You  can  make  her  be 
lieve  that  yon  are  going  to  marry  her  ; 
the  excitement  of  such  fun  will  be  worth 
a  dozen  weddings.  When  you  are  tired 
of  it,  leave  her  (she  will  get  over  it),  and 
take  somebody  el^e.  If  you  married 
her — think  of  it!  you'd  have  to  stare  at 
her  at  least  three  hundred  and  sixty-five 
times  a-year  for  the  rest  of  your  life,  no 
matter  how  much  she  bored  you.  Take 
my  advice — amuse  yoursdf,  my  boy.  I'd 
like  to  know  what  the  d — 1  is  to  pay 
that  I  have  to  exhort  Prince  Mallane  to 
amuse  himself.  It  is  the  firat  time." 


A  WOMAN'S  RIGHT. 


33 


"  Dick  Prescott,  I  feel  as  if  I  could 
knock  you  down.  You  show  that  you 
know  nothing  of  my  case,  when  you 
name  her  in  such  connections.  Yet,  I 
suppose  I  should  have  talked  just  the 
same  a  month  ago.  I  have  amused  my 
self,  and  perhaps  I  may  again.  But  it 
would  be  easier  for  me  to  cut  off  my  hand 
than  to  trifle  with  this  girl.  She  seems 
so  lifted  above  all  evil,  that  I  feel  ashamed 
of  myself  every  time  I  come  into  her 
presence.  I  feel  like  an  inferior  being,  I 
do !  You  may  laugh  if  you  want  to, 
but  I  am  inferior,  and  so  are  you.  "When 
we  think  of  all  the  disgraceful  things 
that  we  have  done,  we  ought  to  stand 
abashed  in  the  presence  of  such  purity. 
Yet  you  dare  ask  me  to  amuse  myself! 
Trifle  with  Tier !  No ;  I  never  saw  a 
lady  at  Marlboro  Hill,  nor  anywhere  else, 
that  I  would  treat  with  more  considera 
tion.  I  used  to  think  that  I  could  talk 
agreeably  to  women.  I  can,  can't  I? 
But  this  innocent  girl  has  taken  a 
little  of  the  vanity  out  of  me.  I  have 
not  the  slightest  reason  to  suppose  that 
she  even  admires  me.  The  flattery 
which  I  deal  out  to  other  girls  of  her 
condition,  would  serve  me  no  purpose 
with  her.  I  should  stammer  and  forget 
all  my  fine  speeches,  the  moment  I  looked 
in  her  eyes." 

"  Mallane,  I  told  you  you  were  touch 
ed.  I  knew  that;  but,  by  Jupiter!  you 
are  clear  gone.  You  are  dead  in  love. 
You  rave  like  a  madman,"  replied  Dick 
Prescott,  as  he  looked  up  into  his  chum's 
face  with  a  surprised  and  quizzical  ex 
pression.  "  I  think  you  are  past  my  ad 
vice,  but  I'll  give  it;  you  may  do  as  you 
please  about  taking  it." 

"  I  am  aware  of  that,"  answered  Paul 
haughtily.  "  You  can't  give  advice 
where  you  can't  even  suppose  a  case. 
Every  word  you  say  only  convinces  me 
the  more,  that  you  have  no  conception 
of  the  loveliness  and  purity  of  the  one 
that  I  have  tried  to  describe  to  you." 

"  Oh,  your  loveliness  and  purity  be 
hanged  !  Your  sentiment  don't  go  down 
with  me,  Prince.  I  know  too  much  of 
the  world  and  of  women.  You  are  sappy. 
You  betray  the  fact  that  you  are  from  the 
rural  districts.  After  all  my  instruction?, 
3 


you  haven't  learned  the  world,  Mallane, 
nor  women.  Let  me  tell  you  again,  they 
are  all  alike.  There  was  never  one  since 
Eve  that  could  not  be  reached  by  flat 
tery.  You  have  let  this  little  plebeian  see 
that  yon  are  smitten.  She  has  been  using 
her  power,  by  making  you  feel  that  you 
must  get  down  upon  your  knees.  But 
don't  tell  me  that  she  can't  be  flattered! 
A  smaller  quantity  and  finer  quality  she 
may  demand,  I  admit.  But  all  you  want 
is  tact  and  insight,  to  administer  to  her 
case  and  be  master  of  the  situation. 
You  need  not  tell  her  so  outright ;  there 
are  a  thousand  ways  by  which  you  can 
make  her  believe  that  you  think  her  the 
loveliest  of  her  sex.  Make  her  feel  that 
you  remember  her.  In  short,  make 
yourself  necessary  to  her,  and  then  show 
her  that  you  are  perfectly  able  to  live 
without  her.  And  Paul,  my  boy,  the 
game  is  yours." 

"  I  am  very  much  obliged  to  you  for 
your  instructions,  although  I  have  heard 
them  all  several  times  before,  and  they 
don't  apply  in  this  case,"  said  Paul  cold 
ly.  "  I  have  made  all  your  moves  and 
won  my  game  more  than  once.  They 
might  win  all  other  women,  but  they 
won't  her.  No  sham  will  live  in  her 
presence.  Any  thing  short  of  utter  sin 
cerity,  would  shrink  before  the  truth  in 
those  eyes.  I  sha'n't  do  a  thing  that 
you've  told  me." 

"Very  well,  then,  don't  come  to  me 
again  for  advice.  You  are  as  unreason 
able  as  a  donkey.  The  trouble  is,  it  is 
a  foregone  thing.  You  are  in  love  al 
ready,  and  won't  listen  to  common  sense 
till  you  are  out  of  it." 

"  No,  I  am  not  in  love,  and  I  don't  in 
tend  to  make  love.  I  have  made  up  my 
mind  not  to  take  any  advantage  of  this 
girl,  never  to  arouse  any  hopes  in  her 
life,  that  my. position  will  not  allow  me 
to  fulfil,  even  allowing  that  I  could  teach 
her  to  like  me ;  and  I  am  not  sure  of 
that,"  added  Paul,  with  a  strange  touch 
of  humility.  "I  will  do  her  justice,  and 
all  the  more  because  she  is  so  poor, — but 
I  am  not  in  love  with  her  ;  I  want  you 
to  understand  that,  Dick." 

"  Oh,  no,  you  are  not  at  all  in  love.  I 
understand  that.  But  do  you  know  how 


34 


EIBEXE : 


many  times  you  Lave  contradicted  your 
self  since  you  commenced  to  talk  about 
tliis  girl?" 

"No,  and  I  don't  care.  I  only  know- 
that  I  have  told  the  truth.  She—" 

"  There !  don't  begin  to  enumerate  her 


perfections  again,  Prince,  or  we  shall 
never  get  out  of  this  yard.  I  am  going 
to  Marlboro.  Will  you  go,  too  ?  " 

"No,  thank  you,"  said  Paul,  "I  am 
going  to  my  room ;"  and  he  set  his  face 
toward  Cambridge. 


IV. 


MOT  IN    LOVK. 

PAUL  went  back  to  his  books  but  not 
to  very  patient  study.  He  had  never 
dreamed  that  Coke  and  Blackstone  could 
be  such  bores. 

Dick  Prescott's  ridicule  forced  him  to 
two  conclusions:  the  first,  that  he  had 
made  a  goose  of  himself  in  so  nearly  fall 
ing  in  love  with  a  girl  so  much  his  infe 
rior  in  station.  Paul  would  not  acknow 
ledge  even  to  himself  that  he  had  fallen 
in  love — of  course  he  had  not.  But  he 
had  come  to  the  conclusion  to  do  justice 
to  all,  no  matter  how  lowly  thoir  condi 
tion,  and  to  do  justice  to  this  girl,  he  said 
he  must  acknowledge  that  she  was  love 
ly,  and  a  lady,  and  very  superior  to  her 
situation.  The  second  conclusion  was, 
that  while  he  would  not  demean  himself 
by  attempting  to  follow  Dick's  advice, 
he  would  be  equally  careful  to  give  Dick 
no  opportunity  to  say  that  he  was  com 
mitting  himself  seriously  to  a  shop-girl. 
He  would  study  harder  than  he  had  ever 
done  before,  and  think  no  more  about 
her.  The  oftener  he  said  that  lie  would 
think  no  more  about  her,  the  more  con 
tinually  he  thought  of  her.  He  had  been 
attracted  before  by  many  pretty  faces, 
that  he  had  found  it  easy  enough  to  for 
get  when  it  became  convenient. 

"  It  will  be  the  same  with  this  one," 
he  said  to  himself.  "  In  a  week  or  two 
I  shaVt  think  any  more  about  it  than 
about  Tilly  Blane's.  and  really  this  time 
last  year  Tilly  looked  wonderfully  pretty. 
I  hadn't  seen  her  in  so  long  a  time,  that 
she  struck  me  as  something  quite  new 
and  charming.  But  I  was  soon  tired 
enough  of  her  pink  and  white,  and  to 
day  she  seems  perfectly  insipid.  I  shall 
he  tired  of  this  face  as  soon  as  I  see  one 
that  will  please  me  better."  In  the 
midst  of  these  very  thoughts,  a  voice  far 
down  in  his  heart  would  say  to  him, 
"  You  will  never  see  a  face  that  will 
please  you  better.1'  And  even  while  he 


exclaimed,  "  I  will  think  no  more  about 
her,"  he  was  eagerly  recalling  every 
lineament,  till  the  whole  face  seemed  to 
rise  through  a  mist  between  his  eyes  and 
his  book.  It  was  not  outline  and  color, 
nor  the  gleam  of  waving  hair,  on  which 
his  eyes  were  fixed.  It  was  the  pure 
brow,  the  appealing  eyes,  the  gentle 
mouth,  which  drew  nearer  and  nearer  to 
his,  till  a  thrill  of  delight  ran  through 
his  heart,  and  he  closed  his  eyes  as  if 
before  an  ecstatic  vision. 

Paul  often  asked  himself,  "I  wonder 
if  she  sometimes  thinks  of  me  ?  "  But 
for  once  his  complacency  failed  him.  He 
by  no  means  felt  certain  that  she  thought 
of  him  with  any  of  the  exquisite  plea 
sure  with  which  he  remembered  her. 
Not  even  the  memory  of  the  blush  in 
the  window  reassured  him.  No  wonder 
she  blushed  when  she  thought  of  my 
rudeness,  and  saw  me  still  staring  nt  her, 
he  said,  for  the  first  time  in  his  life  think 
ing  of  a  woman  without  an  atom  of  self- 
conceit. 

Christmas  came.  Paul  in  his  impa 
tience  thought  it  never  would  come,  yet 
it  did  in  that  year  of  grace  as  early  as  in 
any  other.  When  he  thought  of  going 
home  for  the  holidays,  his  heart  gave  a 
great  throb.  Never  had  any  thought  of 
home  so  moved  it  before.  And  strange 
to  say  when  he  thought  of  it,  he  only 
saw  one  window  and  one  face  in  it.  The 
stiff  parlor,  the  staring  sitting-room,  the 
baby  in  the  cradle,  no  longer  rose  up  and 
annoyed  him,  for  he  did  not  think  of 
them.  And  when  his  worldly  self  said: 
"  Paul  Mallane,  you  are  a  fool.  You  can 
never  marry  this  little  girl.  YOU  re 
spect  her  too  much  even  to  flirt  with 
her.  You  could  not  make  love  to  her 
even  if  you  were  in  love,  and  you  know 
you  are  not.  You  can  only  go  and  look 
at  her.  What  a  fool  to  be  so  anxious 
for  only  that." 

Yet  for  only   "that,"   Paul    refused 


A  WOMAN'S  RIGHT. 


35 


manifold  invitations  to  Beacon-street, 
and  a  special  one.  to  Marlboro  Hill. 
"Thank  you,  Dick,"  he  said,  "but  I 
must  go  home  this  Christmas;  it  will  be 
the  first  time,  you  know,  since  I  entered 
college." 

"Don't  I  know?  I  know,  too,  you 
are  spooney  yet  over  that  shop-girl,  or 
you  would  not  go  for  all  Busyville.  Own 
up.  Prince!  " 

"  I've  nothing  to  own.  I  am  going 
home  because  I  want  to,  that  is  enough." 

"  Well,  go  ahe.id.  We'd  like  to  have 
you  at  the  Hill,  though.  We  shall  have 
a  jolly  time  and  no  mistake.  Bell  is  just 
home  from  Madame  Joli's,  '  finished,' 
and  she  has  brought  a  school-mate  to 
make  my  acquaintance ;  a  Cuban  beauty 
with  a  cool  million.  What  do  you  think 
of  that,  Prince?" 

Paul  had  several  thoughts  concerning 
"that  "  which  drew  him  Marlboro  Hill- 
ward,  when  Dick's  concluding  sentence 
sent  the  tide  back  in  full  force  toward 
Busyville. 

"  Bell  says  she  thinks  that  it  is  time 
that  she  knew  Prince  Mallane.  And 
when  I  was  coming  away  she  said,  '  Be 
sure  and  bring  him  back,  Dick.  I  want 
to  see  how  many  fibs  you  have  told  about 
him ! '  But  of  course,  Bell  Prescott's 
desire  to  know  you  is  nothing  while  a 
pious  shop-girl  is  waiting  to  sing  psalms 
to  you  in  Busyville !  I  know  by  the 
look  of  your  eyes  that  you  don't  intend 
to  take  my  advice — and  fool  her.  No ! 
you  will  let  her  fool  you  into  downright 
love-making.  Then  there'll  be  a  scrape 
you  won't  get  out  of  so  easy.  Mark 
what  I  say.  Prince  Mallnne  won't  mar 
ry  a  shop-girl,  if  he  does  fall  in  love 
with  her." 

"  I  am  not  going  to  fall  in  love  with  a 
shop-girl  nor  marry  her ;  but  I  am  going 
to  spend  Christmas  in  Bnsyville,  Dick. 
Carry  my  regrets  to  Miss  Prescott ;  tell 
her  I  shall  lose  no  time  in  calling  upon 
her  when  I  return,  and  that  may  be  before 
the  holidays  are  over." 

The  moment  Dick's  grating  voice 
uttered  the  word  "shop-girl,"  Paul 
saw  again  as  distinctly  as  if  before  his 
actual  eyes  the  young  face  of  the  window, 
in  its  frame  of  summer  vines,  and  the 


very  chords  of  his  heart  seemed  to  trem 
ble  and  to  draw  him  toward  it.  Besides, 
another  feeling  influenced  him.  He  saw 
that  Dick  was  really  anxious  that  he 
should  become  acquainted  with  his  sister. 

When  they  first  became  chums,  Dick 
used  to  patronize  Paul.  More  than  once 
he  had  made  him  feel  most  keenly  the 
difference  in  their  antecedents ;  the  dis 
tinction  between  having  one's  grand 
father  a  poor  carpenter,  or  having  one's 
grandfather  a  distinguished  gentleman. 
He  had  taught  Paul  the  advantage  of 
possessing  an  illustrious  name,  and  the 
disadvantage  of  owning  one  the  world 
never  heard  of  before.  Yet,  in  spite  of 
the  obscure  name,  and  in  defiance  of 
rank  and  of  ancient  lineage,  some  way 
the  sceptre  had  slipped  into  Paul's  hands. 
Dick  had  learned  that  the  prestige  of  a 
fine  physique,  of  graceful  manners,  and 
of  a  brilliant  brain,  are  quite  as  potent 
as  the  memory  of  one's  grandfather. 
Everywhere  he  saw  Paul  possessing  him 
self  of  attention  and  of  admiration,  by 
the  charm  of  his  own  personality.  He 
saw,  too,  that  it  added  to  the  reputation 
of  even  a  Prescott,  to  be  on  intimate 
terms  with  this  popular  youth.  He  ac 
knowledged  his  claim  as  a  rising  man  ; 
spoke  of  him  always  as  his  particular 
friend,  the  prince  of  fine  fellows;  and 
though  he  still  lectured  and  gave  him 
advice  as  a  man  of  the  world,  it  was  no 
longer  with  the  assumption  of  superiority 
or  the  arrogance  of  earlier  days.  Still 
Paul  had  not  forgotten  the  snubbings  and 
condescensions  which  used  to  bruise  his 
self-love,  and  he  always  remembered 
them  most  keenly  when  Dick,  by  some 
word  or  act,  made  him  aware  of  his  pres 
ent  importance.  He  was  flattered  at 
Dick's  eagerness  that  he  should  meet 
Miss  Bell, '  yet  this  very  eagerness 
prompted  him  to  show  his  own  indiffer 
ence  as  proper  pay  for  old  patronage  in 
the  past.  In  characteristic  fnshion,  if 
there  had  been  no  Eirene  Vale  in  Busy 
ville,  Paul  Mallane  would  probably  have 
gone  to  that  not  brilliant  winter-town, 
when  he  found  that  Dick  Prescott  was 
really  anxious  that  he  should  become  ac 
quainted  with  his  sister. 

Without  one  yearning  for  Marlboro 


36 


EIKENE : 


Hill  he  went  to  Busyville.  He  saw  the 
daguerreotypes  which  he  despised,  still 
piled  around  the  astral  lamp.  He  saw 
the  bright  stripes  of  the  sitting-room  car 
pet,  the  hateful  yellow  of  its  oak  paper; 
indeed,  he  saw  most  clearly  every  thing 
which  he  disliked,  for  all  that  he  had 
longed  most  to  see  was  wanting. 

The  girl  "  up-stairs "  had  gone  home 
to  spend  Christmas-week,  and  Paul  had 
his  old  seat  at  the  table  with  the  ordi 
nary  countenance  of  his  sister  Grace  for 
a  perfectly  safe  vis-d-vis. 

Great  would  have  been  the  delight  of 
Tabitha  Mallane  at  the  prospect  of  Paul 
spending  his  holidays  at  home,  if  she 
could  have  believed  that  the  unwonted 
visit  had  no  connection  whatever  with 
the  girl  "up-stairs."  Her  instincts  all 
bore  opposite  testimony.  Thus  she  said 
to  her  husband, 

"  Father,  give  the  poor  girl  a  week, 
and  let  her  wages  go  on.  She  can't  af 
ford  to  lose  any  thing,  but  I  think  that 
she  is  homesick." 

"  She  can  go  home,  and  welcome.  I 
am  glad  that  you  are  getting  more  kindly 
disposed  toward  the  little  girl.  I'm  sure 
she  makes  no  trouble,"  said  good-natured 
unsuspecting  John  Mallane. 

But  Paul  and  his  mother  knew  each 
other  intuitively.  The  other  girls  wore 
at  work  ;  if  Eirene  had  a  holiday  there 
was  a  special  reason,  and  his  mother 
was  connected  with  it,  Paul  knew.  Yet 
he  said  nothing ;  he  did  not  mention  the 
name  of  the  "  new  hand ;"  he  was  only 
more  ill-natured  than  usual,  found  fault 
with  every  thing. 

He  had  intended  to  be  very  munifi 
cent — to  present  to  each  of  the  children 
and  to  his  mother  an  elegant  Christmas 
gift.  Besides,  he  had  resolved  for  once 
to  be  as  smiling  and  gracious  at  home  as 
he  had  ever  been  in  Beacon-street  or 
Marlboro  Hill,  and  not  to  swear  at  the 
baby  once,  no  matter  how  loudly  it 
screamed.  Poor  Paul  1  the  result  was 
that  he  forgot  all  about  the  presents,  and 
he  made  himself  so  disagreeable,  and  the 
atmosphere  of  the  whole  house  so  per 
fectly  uncomfortable,  that  at  the  close  of 
the  third  day  his  mother  felt  relieved 
when  he  informed  her  that  he  should  go 


and  spend  the  remainder  of  the  week  at 
Marlboro  Hill. 

"  Very  well,  Paul,"  she  said  in  a  per 
fectly  undisturbed  tone.  "  I  should  think 
you  would  like  to  meet  Miss  Prescott, 
and  the  next  time  you  come  home  I  hope 
that  you  will  be  happier." 

"  That  will  depend  on  circumstances, 
mother,"  answered  her  son,  looking  her 
fully  in  the  eyes. 

The  gray  eyes  looked  back  with  as 
wide  and  deep  a  gaze. 

They  understood  each  other. 

When  Eirene  heard  Grace  and  the 
children  talk  of  Paul's  coming  home  at 
Christmas,  it  was  with  a  feeling  of  relief 
that  she  thought  she  should  not  meet 
him,  and  she  felt  more  than  ever  grateful 
for  Mr.  Mallane's  unexpected  permission 
to  spend  the  holidays  at  Hilltop. 

If  she  had  been  asked  why  she  felt  re 
lieved  at  the  thought  of  not  meeting  Paul, 
I  doubt  if  she  could  have  told — for  she 
spent  very  little  time  anfllyziug  her  own 
emotions  ;  but  in  a  dim,  unconscious  way, 
she  felt  that  while  he  was  most  pleasant 
to  behold,  he  was  an  object  so  entirely 
above  her  own  lowly  life,  that  it  were 
wiser  for  her  not  to  contemplate  him, 
lest  what  seemed  brilliant  and  desirable 
in  his  lot,  should  make  her  less  patient 
of  what  was  distasteful  in  her  own.  In 
the  weeks  thrtt  had  passed  since  his  hand 
some  face  vanished  from  the  house,  its 
memory  had  at  times  come  back,  and 
brought  with  it  something  like  light  and 
warmth  into  the  cold  little  chamber. 

If  Eirene  had  been  a  wealthy  school 
girl,  with  nothing  to  do  but  to  learn  her 
lessons,  and  no  object  of  interest  dearer 
than  her  own  pretty  self,  doubtless  she 
would  have  spent  as  much  time  medita 
ting  on  this  princely  youth  as  he  did  in 
thinking  of  her. 

Amid  such  circumstances  this  manly 
face,  the  most  brilliant  that  she  had  ever 
seen,  would  probably  have  shone  upon 
her  often  enough  to  have  satisfied  the 
utmost  vanity  of  its  owner. 

But  life's  hard  conditions  saved  Eirene 
from  even  the  temptation  of  idle  dream 
ing.  They  had  filled  her  young  heart 
with  desires  and  anxieties  too  deeply  root 
ed  to  be  displaced  by  any  passing  fancy. 


A  WOMAN'S  RIGHT. 


37 


To  her  already  life  was  a  fact  whose 
penalties  she  did  not  seek  to  escape,  but 
to  fulfil,  faithfully  and  patiently. 

Already  her  labor  had  found  a  pur 
pose  and  an  end  ;  thinking  of  these,  the 
young  feet  might  faint,  and  the  young 
hands  grow  weary,  but  the  true  heart 
never  faltered  nor  murmured. 

There  was  the  mortgage  !  that  dread 
ful  mortgage  that  she  had  heard  of  ever 
since  she  could  remember.  It  was  cer 
tain  to  be  foreclosed  before  very  long ; 
for  the  man  who  held  it  was  very  aged, 
and  his  heir,  who  lived  in  a  distant  city, 
had  already  announced  that  if  the  little 
farm  was  not  redeemed  by  the  time  of 
the  old  man's  death,  it  would  be  sold  in 
the  settlement  of  his  estate.  Eirene 
knew  that  this  day  could  not  be  very  far 
off;  that  unless  her  father  was  prepared 
to  meet  it,  Hilltop  would  be  lost ;  and 
she  thought  with  a  shudder,  of  the 
family  going  out  from  the  only  home 
that  it  had  ever  known ;  of  her  father, 
more  incapable  and  discouraged  than 
ever,  seeking  vainly  to  begin  his  fortune 
anew  with  all  the  world's  odds  against 
him.  Then  there  was  Win's  profession ! 
His  life  must  not  be  a  failure,  as  his  fa 
ther's  had  been.  No  Vale  had  ever  been 
known  to  succeed  in  business ;  his  tastes 
and  habits  were  intellectual ;  he  might 
succeed  in  something  connected  with 
books,  she  felt  quite  sure  that  he  would. 
And  there  was  a  little  education  for  her 
self!  It  could  never  be  finished  or 
thorough,  she  knew,  but  by  improving 
all  her  moments  out  of  the  shop  she 
could  learn  considerable. 

The  Vale  instincts  were  strong  in  the 
girl's  nature.  Culture  was  a  necessity. 
She  longed  to  hold  the  key  of  knowledge, 
and  unlock  for  herself  something  of  the 
mystery  of  the  universe.  Into  this  pre 
occupied  heart,  so  full  of  care  for  others, 
so  busy  with  loving  thoughts  for  father, 
mother,  sister,  and  brother,  in  strangely 
brilliant  contrast  sometimes  stepped  the 
image  of  the  handsome  Paul ;  but  it  was 
by  no  means  the  absorbing  and  undivid 
ed  presence  which  that  individual  de 
sired. 

The  Harvard  law-student,  after  he  had 
dismissed  his  books  and  his  chums,  often 


sat  far  into  the  night  alone  in  his  hand 
some  bachelor's  room  in  Cambridge. 
His  indulgent  father  had  denied  him 
nothing,  and  the  apartment  reflected 
without  stint  Paul's  love  of  luxury  and 
beauty.-  Rich  books  atid  pictures  were 
scattered  around  him  in  profusion.  A 
velvet  carpet  covered  the  floor ;  a  sumpt 
uous  lounge  was  drawn  near  the  open 
fire,  on  which  our  young  gentleman  re 
clined,  smoking  his  meerschaum.  The 
blue  velvet  cap  upon  his  head,  whose  sil 
ver  embroidery  and  glittering  tassel  af 
forded  such  fine  relief  to  his  dark  hair, 
and  which  in  itself  was  so  strikingly  be 
coming,  was  wrought  by  Helena  May- 
nard,  a  Beacon-street  belle.  The  delicate 
buds  and  roses  blooming  on  his  slippers 
had  been  worked  with  tenderest  thought 
for  him  by  the  pretty  fingers  of  Tilly 
Blane.  Even  the  watch-case  on  the 
wall  with  its  delicate  filigree,  and  the 
cigar-stand  upon  the  table  with  its  gold 
en  frettings,  were  gifts  from  her  and  the 
beautiful  Maynard,  meet  examples  of  the 
prodigal  presents  which  fond  and  fool 
ish  girls  are  forever  making  to  young 
men  ;  presents  which  are  sure  at  last  to 
find  their  way  into  the  hands  of  mistress 
or  wife,  while  the  ungrateful  masculine 
says,  "  You  shall  have  this,  sweetheart. 

Isn't  it  pretty  ?  gave  it  to  me.  She 

was  in  love  with  me,  poor  thing !  " 

Paul  sat  in  true  bachelor  reverie,  gaz 
ing  into  the  clear  flame  and  down  into 
the  red  core  of  the  wood-fire,  which  was 
one  of  his  special  delights. 

With  the  perversity  inherent  in  man, 
with  the  silver-embroidered  cap  upon 
his  head,  and  the  rose-wrought  slippers 
blossoming  on  his  feet,  his  thoughts 
were  not  of  the  Beacon-street  belle,  nor 
of  pretty  Tilly  Blane,  but  of  a  girl  who 
had  never  given  him  any  thing  at  all. 
The  young  eyes  into  whose  depths  he 
seemed  to  gaze,  had  a  look  in  them 
which  he  could  neither  fathom  nor  un 
derstand,  yet  it  haunted  and  fascinated 
him.  It  was  the  look  of  eyes  which 
saw  further  down  into  the  deeps  of  life 
than  he  could  divine,  reflecting  the 
emotions  of  a  nature  which  had  felt 
already  the  mystery,  the  tenderness,  the 
pathos  of  existence ;  as  h«,  in  his  strong 


38 


EIRENB  : 


self-centered  life,  had  never  felt  them. 
Her  years  were  fewer,  yet  in  all  that 
really  makes  life,  in  doing,  in  feeling,  in 
being,  she  had  out-lived  him.  To  Paul, 
these  eyes  were  full  of  mystery,  guileless 
as  a  child's ;  they  still  suggested  to  him 
gentleness,  tenderness,  and  love,  deeper 
than  he  had  ever  dreamed  of  in  woman. 
This  was  why,  in  spite  of  himself,  they 
followed  him  always.  It  never  occurred 
to  him  to  inquire,  "  Is  there  ought  in 
me  to  suffice  these  large,  tender,  asking 
eyes  ?  "  His  thought  was,  though  he 
was  not  conscious  of  it,  "  What  is  there 
not  in  this  heart  for  me!  Somebody 
will  woo  and  win  it!  "Why  not  I — I 
want  it.  I  will  have  it,"  he  said,  at  last, 
but  not  then. 

At  the  same  hour,  when  the  luxurious 
student  leaned  back  amid  his  cushions, 
dreaming  over  pipe  and  blaze,  the  young 
shop-girl  sat  in  her  bare  chamber  with 
out  a  fire.  Feet  and  fingers  were  numb 
with  cold,  and  she  shivered  in  the  shawl 
which  she  had  wrapped  around  her,  but 
it  was  the  only  time  that  she  had  for 
quiet  study;  and,  though  the  eyelids 
would  droop  sometimes,  and  the  book 
almost  fall  from  the  stiffened  fingers,  she 
studied  on  till  the  lesson  was  learned. 

The  frozen  air  was  hardly  as  favorable 
to  love-dreaming  as  the  summer  atmo 
sphere  of  the  Cambridge  parlor. 

During  the  three  days  spent  at  home, 
Paul  had  stalked  into  this  room,  impelled 
by  angry  curiosity.  He  was  strongly 
suspicious  that  it  was  the  most  comfort 
less  room  in  the  house  ;  and  in  the  ab 
sence  of  its  inmate,  he  deliberately 
opened  the  door  and  walked  in  to  see  if 
his  suspicions  were  correct.  When  he 
looked  at  the  bare  painted  floor,  the  cold 
whitewashed  walls,  the  scanty  and 
shabby  furniture,  strange  to  relate,  the 
aristocratic  youth  thrust  his  hands  into 
his  pockets,  and  in  his  wrath  swore 
aloud,  because  the  apartment  of  this 
shop-girl  was  not  as  comfortable  as  that 
of  his  sister  Grace.  He  had  no  very 
generous  ideas  of  what  was  necessary  to 
the  comfort  of  shop-girls  in  general,  but 
some  way  these  ideas  did  n<>t  seem  to 
apply  in  any  way  to  this  particular  one. 
He  had  supposed  the  room  was  meagre 


enough,  and  yet  he  was  not  prepared  to 
see  it  look  quite  so  barren,  so  utterly 
devoid  of  all  comfort. 

"  There  are  rolls  and  rolls  of  carpeting 
in  the  garret  that  have  never  been  used, 
and  yet  mother  won't  lay  a  strip  down 
here,"  lie  said  deprecatingly,  as  he 
looked  on  the  painted  floor.  •'  Even  old 
Beck  can  have  a  warm  fire  in  her  cham 
ber  over  the  kitchen,  and  she  hasn't  had 
one  this  winter.  She  sits  here  and 
studies,  too,  in  the  cold.  Curse  it !  "  he 
exclaimed,  still  more  bitterly,  as  he 
looked  at  the  stand  by  the  window  on 
which  Eirene  had  left  a  few  books  and 
a  work-basket.  Paul  took  up  the  books 
one  by  one,  and  found  them  to  be  Fas- 
quelle's  French  Grammar  and  Dictionary, 
Fenelon's  Telemachus,  a  small  volume 
of  extr.icts  of  Bossuet's  sermons,  and  a 
French  Testament.  The  two  latter  were 
very  small,  very  richly  bound,  and  very 
old.  On  the  fly-leaf  of  the  Testament 
he  read  in  round  delicate  characters, 
"ALICE  VALE,  1820. 
Spes  mea  Christus," 
and  below,  in  a  cleur,  graceful  hand, 

"  EIEENE  VALE,  1856. 
En  Dieu  est  ma  fiance." 

Paul  looked  long  and  thoughtfully  on 
these  two  names  and  sentences,  the  first 
brown  and  faded,  the  last  clear  and 
bright,  as  if  lately  written. 

"Well,"  he  at  last  soliloquized:  "I 
am  glad  you  have  somebody  to  trust  in. 
It  would  be  very  little  comfort  to  me 
though,  to  trust  in  God,  if  I  had  to 
work  in  a  shop  and  burrow  in  a  hole 
like  this,  and  be  snubbed  by  my  inferi 
ors.  For  we  are  her  inferiors.  I  am 
her  inferior,  I  know  it,  and  d — n  my 
position !  "  he  exclaimed,  as  proud  in 
his  sudden  humility  as  he  had  ever 
been  in  his  self-conceit.  He  laid  the 
books  down  on  the  white  cover  with 
which  Eirene  had  sought  to  hide  the 
deformity  of  the  old  pine  stand,  looked 
at  them  a  moment,  and  then  with  a  low 
whistle  walked  out  of  the  room  and  out 
of  the  house.  He  knew  that  his  mother 
had  heard  him  walking  on  the  bare  floor 
over  her  head ;  indeed,  he  was  in  such  a 
defiant  mood,  he  had  made  all  the  noise 
that  he  could.  It  was  partly  to  punish 


A  WOMAN'S  RIGHT. 


39 


his  mother  for  sending  Eirene  away, 
that  he  had  gone  up  there  in  the  first 
place ;  he  knew  that  nothing  could  vex 
her  more ;  but  having  done  as  he  chose, 
he  now  had  no  desire  to  return  to  the 
sitting-room  and  listen  to  a  lecture  from 
over  the  cradle.  If  he  did,  he  knew 
that  he  would  say  in  reply  something 
perfectly  savage,  and  Paul  did  not  like 
to  be  impertinent  to<his  mother,  how 
ever  much  he  enjoyed  punishing  her  by 
his  actions  for  thwarting  his  wishes. 

Tabitha  Mallane  rocked  the  cradle 
and  listened  to  Paul  walking  in  Eirene's 
room  overhead  ;  heard  him  come  down 
stairs  and  go  out,  shutting  the  front 
door  with  an  angry  slam.  She  then  left 
the  baby  in  the  cradle  and  walked  qui 
etly  up  to  the  room  that  he  had  left. 

"It  does  look  comfortless,  sure 
enough,"  she  said,  as  she  gazed  around. 
"  I  should  have  made  the  girl  more  com 
fortable  if  I  had  not  taken  such  a  dis 
like  to  her  on  his  account.  I  foresaw 
all  this.  I  knew  how  it  would  be.  I 
was  sure  of  it;  because  I  knew  that, 
with  all  his  fancies,  Paul  had  never 
loved  any  girl,  and  that  what  is  pecu 
liar  in  this  one,  is  just  what  would  seize 
and  hold  him.  It  is  no  trifling  matter 
for  a  Bard  to  love,  and  Paul  is  all  a  Bard 
in  his  passions.  I  wanted  to  save  him 
trouble  and  her  too.  It  is  too  late. 
Love  her  he  will,  in  spite  of  me ;  but 
marry  her  he  won't.  It  is  not  too  late 
to  prevent  that.  You  needn't  study 
French  for  him,  young  lady ! "  she  ex 
claimed,  as  she  gave  the  grammar  a  con 
temptuous  push  ;  "  he  will  never  marry 
you,  never ! " 

When  Eirene  returned,  great  was  her 
surprise  to  find  upon  her  little  stand 
a  package  which  had  come  by  express, 
directed  to 

"Miss  EIKEXE  VALE, 
Care  of  Hon.  John  Mallane." 

She  opened  it,  and  found  within  two 
cabinet  pictures  in  half-oval  rustic 
frames,  the  one  a  photograph  of  one  of 
the  most  exquisite  marbles  ever  con 
ceived  by  human  soul,  or  wrought  by 
human  hand — Palmer's  statue  of  Faith 
before  the  Cross.  The  other  was  an 
engraving  of  Longfellow's  Evangeline. 


As  she  took  these  treasures  from  their 
paper  wrappings,  Eirene's  hands  trem 
bled  so  with  delight  that  she  could 
scarcely  hold  them.  Who  had  sent 
them  ?  Who  could  have  thought  of  her  ? 
How  perfectly  satisfying  they  were. 
How  happy  she  was.  She  had  never 
seen  her  mime  before  written  by  a 
strange  hand.  Indeed,  in  all  her  life  she 
had  never  received  a  communication 
from  any  one  outside  of  her  own  family. 
Thus  she  read  the  superscription  over 
and  over,  trying  in  every  letter  to  catch 
a  clue  to  the  writer.  But  no,  she  never 
saw  that  bold,  full  hand  before ;  that  os 
tentatious  quirl  at  the  end  of  the  "  e  " 
did  not  afford  the  slightest  idea  of  its 
maker.  She  only  knew  that  somebody 
was  so  kind,  and  it  was  so  strange  because 
she  thought  that  no  one  knew  her  outside 
of  Hilltop. 

Could  it  be  ?  Could  it  be  Mr.  Paul 
Mallane,  who,  in  making  presents  to  all 
the  family,  had  so  unexpectedly  inclu 
ded  her?  Oh  no,  that  was  not  possible. 
He  had  never  spoken  to  her  but  once, — 
and  his  mother  1  His  mother  she  feared 
did  not  like  her.  Thus,  she  knew  that 
Mr.  Paul  would  not  send  a  present  to  her 
directed  to  the  care  of  his  father,  when 
he  must  know  that  to  do  so  would  dis 
please  his  mother !  Besides,  Mr.  Paul 
Mallane  himself  was  rather  haughty, 
and  she, — she  worked  in  a  shop!  No, 
it  could  not  be  he.  She  did  not  know 
who  had  sent  it,  but  she  would  save  the 
direction. 

What  companionship  and  comfort  she 
would  find  in  these  faces !  already  they 
changed  to  her  the  entire  aspect  of  the 
room.  Her  surprises  were  increased 
when  turning  around  she  saw,  what  she 
h;id  not  discovered  before,  a  small  stove, 
and  behind  it  a  box  filled  with  wood 
ready  for  burning. 

"  Oh  dear,  how  pleasant  every  thing 
is,"  she  exclaimed ;  and  in  her  overflow 
ing  gratitude,  quite  forgetting  all  her  fear 
of  Mrs.  Mallane,  she  ran  down-stairs,  and 
appearing  before  the  lady,  exclaimed: 

"  How  kind  of  you,  Mrs.  M:illane,  to 
put  that  dear  little  stove  into  my  room ! 
It  will  make  it  so  pleasant  to  study  even. 
ings.  I  thank  you  so  much." 


40 


EIUENE  : 


-  "  You  needn't  thank  me,"  said  that 
truthful  woman.  "  Thank  Mr.  Mallane ; 
it's  his  work.  I  shouldn't  give  you 
any  stove  to  injure  your  health  by.  It 
is  a  very  bad  thing  for  you  to  sit  up  as 
you  do  nights,  using  candles  and  your 
eyes  besides.  When  you  have  eaten  your 
supper  you  ought  to  go  to  bed." 

"  It  is  the  only  time  I  have."  said 
Eireue  beseechingly. 

"It  is  the  only  time  you  have  to 
sleep,  and  you  ought  to  use  it  for  that 
purpose.  What  do  you  want  more  edu 
cation  for,  any  way?  You  have  enough 
now  for  all  practical  purposes ;  unless 
you  want  to  teach  school,  and  that's  a 
dog's  life.  You  had  better  stay  in  the 
shop.  In  your  situation  in  life  the  more 
education  you  have  the  more  discon 
tented  you'll  be.  If  I've  heard  the  truth, 
that  is  the  curse  of  your  whole  family. 
You  are  none  of  you  willing  to  come 
down  to  your  circumstances.  You  are 
all  trying  to  be  more  than  God  intended 
you  should  be,  and  to  get  out  of  the 
place  in  which  He  put  you.  My  advice 
is,  earn  an  honest  living,  and  be  con 
tented.  You've  got  all  the  learning  you 
need  for  that  now."  With  these  cruel 
thrusts  Mrs.  Mullane  looked  up,  and  the 
white  quivering  face  before  her  moved 
her  perhaps  to  a  stony  compassion,  for 
she  said  : 

"There!  you  needn't  cry.  You'll 
hear  harder  truths  than  I  have  told  you 
before  you  get  through  the  world. 
There's  no  use  in  being  so  tender,  it 
don't  pay.  Study  all  night,  if  you  want 
to,  but  I  thought  I'd  do  my  duty." 

Just  then  came  a  knock  at  the  door, 
which  opened  an  instant  afterwards 
with  Mrs.  Mallane's  "  come  in  ;  "  and 
there  appeared  the  well-fed  form  and 
florid  face  of  young  Brother  Viner,  the 
Methodist  clergyman.  Tabitha  Mallane 
was  born  a  Brahmin,  and  one  of  the 
sacrifices  which  she  had  made  to  her 
luve  f««r  John  Mallane  was  to  forsake 
her  high  cs'ate  in  the  Brahmin  church, 
to  take  up  her  cross  and  become  a 
Methodist.  But  sister  Mallane  had  "a 
gift."  She  could  speak  and  pray  in 
meeting  with  profound  effect. 

The  encouragement  given  her  talent, 


the  powerful  influence  it  gave  het 
among  her  brethren  and  sisters  in  the 
church,  more  than  compensated  her  for 
a  place  and  a  pew  lost  among  the  Brah 
mins. 

Brother  Viner  was  a  special  favorite. 
He  was  young,  well-looking,  talented 
enough  to  command  the  first  churches. 
Besides,  his  father  was  rich.  Sister 
Mallane  had  more  than  one  reason  for 
wishing  to  ensure  his  good  graces. 
For  a  moment  his  attention  seemed 
fixed  upon  the  white  face  in  the  open 
door  opposite,  and  as  it  vanished  he 
was  still  looking  after  it,  when  Mrs. 
Mallane  said : 

"Do  sit  down,  Brother  Viner;  you 
are  just  the  one  that  I  want  to  see. 
The  Lord  must  have  sent  you.  I  am 
sorely  tried." 

"  What  is  your  trial,  Sister  Mallane  ? " 

"  My  sense  of  duty,  and  the  difficulty 
of  doing  it.  You  saw  that  girl  in  the 
door  ? " 

"  Yes,  a  sweet  face." 

"  Well,  I  suppose  you  gentlemen 
would  call  it  sweet.  I  am  sorry,  Bro 
ther  Viner,  to  tell  you  that  it  is  a  de 
ceitful  face.  I  know  it  has  a  look  in  it 
such  as  you  see  in  pictures,  and  you  gen 
tlemen  are  attracted  by  it,  that  is  why 
it  is  dangerous ;  but  it  belongs  to  a 
weak-minded,  inefficient  person.  She 
belongs  to  a  family  miserably  poor,  and 
she  is  going  the  way  to  make  them 
poorer.  I  feel  it  to  be  my  duty  to  tell 
her  so,  to  instruct  her  in  the  right  way; 
but  it  is  hard  to  the  flesh  to  do  so.  I 
am  a  mother,  Brother  Viner.  I  have  a 
daughter.  I  have  a  mother's  feelings. 
When  I  look  on  this  girl,  and  think 
what  would  be  the  state  of  my  mind  if 
my  Grace  were  like  her — " 

"  What  does  the  poor  girl  do,  sister  ? 
I  thought  she  seemed  to  have  a  very  in 
nocent  face ;  but  then  I  only  caught  a 
glimpse  of  it  as  she  shut  the  door." 

"  Well,  I  must  say  that  gentlemen  are 
all  alike  in  one  thing — they  will  think 
that  a  face  is 'innocent  and  every  thing 
perfect  if  it  is  only  young  and  pretty. 
Even  Mr.  Mallane,  sharp-sighted  as  he 
is,  cannot  see  a  fault  in  this  girl.  And 
God  knows  the  trial  she  is  to  me  !  " 


A  WOMAN'S  EIGHT. 


41 


The  concluding  sentence  was  perfectly 
sincere,  and  uttered  in  the  pathetic 
mother-quaver  which  was  entirely 
absent  from  the  first  portion  of  the 
reply.  Brother  Viner  was  a  young 
man,  and  not  profoundly  experienced  in 
the  ways  of  women.  His  own  mother, 
a  sweet-tempered,  unworldly  woman, 
never  torn  by  conflicting  ambitions  and 
passions,  could  not  have  been  moved  to 
such  a  show  of  distress  by  any  thing 
less  than  death,  or  an  equally  over 
whelming  calamity.  Men  measure  all 
women  by  the  particular  woman  whom 
they  know  best.  Thus,  Brother  Viner, 
thinking  the  while  of  his  own  mother, 
felt  sure  that  Sister  Mallane  had  pro 
found  cause  for  being  "-sorely  tried ; " 
but  some  way,  it  was  difficult  for  him  to 
connect  the  cause  of  such  trial  with  the 
face  which  he  had  just  seen  in  the  door. 
He  was  exceedingly  puzzled.  In  seek 
ing  explanation,  he  very  naturally  fell 
back  upon  his  ministerial  functions. 

"  Have  you  asked  wisdom  from  on 
high  ?  "  he  asked.  "  That  is  our  only 
help,  Sister  Mallane.  Don't  you  think 
that  it  would  bring  comfort  to  your 
soul  if  we  should  have  a  season  of 
prayer  ? " 

"  Yes,  Brother  Viner,  that  is  my  only 
refuge.  But  wouldn't  you  like  to  have 
me  call  Grace  ?  Dear  child !  I  think 
her  heart  is  very  tender  just  at  this 
time.  I  feel  certain  that  she  is  serious, 
for  last  S;ibbatl),  after  your  sermon  to 
the  young,  she  said,  '  Mother;  I  shall 
read  a  chapter  in  the  Bible  every  day;' 
and  after  prayer-meeting  in  the  evening, 
she  said,  '  it  goes  right  through  my 
heart  to  hear  Brother  Viner  pray.'  I 
wouldn't  have  her  miss  hearing  you 
now.  You  may  be  the  means  of  bring 
ing  the  dear  lamb  into  the  fold  of 
Christ.  Oh,  Brother  Viner,  you  little 
know  the  feelings  of  a  mother's  heart!  " 

Brother  Viner  was  very  sure  that  he 
did  not.  Therefore  he  made  no  reply, 
but  began  to  compose  his  countenance 
for  his  coming  prayer,  which  he  in 
tended  should  contain  an  eloquent 
appeal  for  the  conversion  of  the  young 
girl's  soul,  while  Sister  Mallane  went  to 
the  door  and  called  Grace. 


Grace  appeared  with  downcast  eyes 
and  maiden  blushes,  and  with  tremulous 
devotion  prostrated  herself  upon  her 
knees,  while  the  young  minister  in 
sonorous  tones  said,  "Let  us  address 
the  Throne  of  the  Heavenly  Grace." 

In  the  meantime,  the  cause  of  this 
family  prayer-meeting, — who,  strangely 
enough,  was  left  entirely  out  of  it, — the 
girl  up-stairs — wrapped  in  her  shawl, — 
was  gazing  steadfastly  upon  her  new 
picture,  Faith  before  the  Cross. 

The  utter  repose  of  the  figure,  the 
beautiful  serenity  of  the  uplifted  coun 
tenance,  seemed  to  steal  over  the  trem 
bling  frame  of  the  young  girl ;  the  tears 
faded  from  her  eyes,  the  quivering  lips 
grew  still,  and  without  being  conscious 
of  it,  she  began  to  grow  calm  and  strong 
again,  to  take  up  the  cross  of  her  own 
little  life. 

At  the  same  hour  Paul  sat  in  one  of 
the  lecture-rooms  of  Harvard.  He  gave 
slight  heed  to  the  Professor's  learned 
disquisition ;  his  thoughts  were  far  away. 
He  was  wondering  if  Eirene  had  come 
back;  if  she  had  received  the  pictures; 
if  she  liked  them ;  if  his  father  had 
attended  to  the  stove.  Then  he  thought 
how  he  would  like  to  take  a  peep  into 
the  little  room,  just  to  see  her  enjoy  the 
comfort  of  being  warm  ;  indeed,  how  he 
would  like  to  sit  down  there,  beside  the 
little  pine  stand,  and  help  her  to  read  Tele- 
maque.  Paul  had  studied  French  in  the 
old  academy,  and  later  had  acquired  the 
faultless  accent  of  Monsieur  de  Paris,  and 
felt  sure  that  he  was  perfectly  qualified 
to  be  her  teacher  in  the  beau  language. 
The  more  he  thought  of  it,  the  more  he 
longed  for  the  privilege;  the  stronger 
grew  the  attraction  in  the  bare  little 
room  at  home,  the  more  tedious  grew 
the  Professor,  and  the  more  intolerable 
his  learned  disquisition  on  the  law.  Paul 
at  last  felt  as  if  he  could  not  stay  where 
he  was  another  minute. 

Great  had  been  the  astonishment  of 
good  John  Mallane  a  few  <'ays  before, 
when  he  received,  with  the  package 
directed  to  Miss  Eirene  Vale,  a  letter 
to  himself  from  Paul,  which  ran  in  this 
wise: 

"DEAB  FATHEE: — You  will  oblige  me 


42 


EIBENE  : 


by  delivering  to  Miss  Eirene  Vale  the 
accompanying  package.  And  you  will 
oblige  me  still  more,  if  you  will  see  that 
a  stove  is  put  up  in  her  room,  that  the 
poor  girl  may  be  made  more  comfortable. 
When  I  was  at  home  I  accidentally  step 
ped  into  her  room,  and  was  shocked,  yes, 
I  must  say  shocked,  to  find  that  one, 
thought  worthy  to  have  a  home  under 
my  father's  roof,  should  occupy  a  room 
no  better  furnished  than  a  prison-cell  ; 
and  have  absolutely  nothing  done  for 
her  comfort.  I  saw  books  which  she 
must  sit  up  at  night  to  study,  yet  she  has 
not  had  a  fire  in  her  room  this  winter. 

"  The  girl  is  nothing  to  me.  But  as  I 
sit  before  my  cosy  fire  in  my  cushioned 
chair,  in  a  room  full  of  luxuries,  I  must 
confess  that  I  feel  mean,  to  think  that 
all  these  things  have  been  given  to  me, 
a  man,  to  make  my  student-life  more 
attractive,  while  a  young  girl,  trying  to 
study  under  every  disadvantage,  sits 
shivering  and  freezing  over  her  book, 
and  that  in  my  own  father's  house.  I  tell 
you,  father,  it  takes  away  more  than 
half  of  the  comfort  of  my  fire;  and  I 
should  despise  myself  if  it  did  not. 

"  As  I  said  before,  the  girl  is  nothing 
to  me,  personally,  for  I  have'  not  even 
spoken  to  her  since  she  entered  your 
house.  Yet  please  say  nothing  to  mo 
ther  about  this  letter,  for  you  know  her 
weakness.  She  thinks  that  I  am  in  love 
with  every  girl  that  I  look  at,  except 
Tilly  Blane.  You,  dear  father,  know 
better.  You  know  that  I  make  the 
request  simply  from  a  feeling  of  human 
ity  ;  because  I  like  my  ease  too  well  to 
have  it  disturbed  by  my  conscience,  at 
lea>t  in  this  case.  And  I  know,  father, 
that  you^want  every  body  in  your  house 
to  be  comfortable.  I  think  mother  does, 
too,— every  one  except  this  little  girl, 
whom  she  dislikes  because  she  thinks 
that  I  shall  fall  in  love  with  her,  of 
which  there  is  not  the  slightest  danger. 

"  Your  affectionate  son, 

"  PAUL." 

John  Mallane  took  his  spectacles  off, 
wiped  and  re-wiped,  set  them  on  his 
high  nose,  took  them  off  and  set  them 
back  again  numerous  times,  before  Paul's 
letter  had  received  its  last  reading  and 
was  shut  away  in  his  inside  pocket. 
Then  he  said  to  himself:  "  The  girl  must 
have  the  stove,  of  course.  She  could 
have  had  it  before  if  I  had  known  that 
she  hadn't  one.  But  it  seems  to  me 
this  is  new  business  for  Paul,  prowling 


around  in  his  mother's  chambers,  look 
ing  after  the  comfort  of  their  inmates. 
But  I  consider  his  letter  an  encourag 
ing  surn.  He  has  been  indulged  so  innch 
himself,  and  has  so  many  wants  of  his 
own,  I  have  thought  sometimes  that  he 
would  never  think  of  other  people's.  I 
am  glad  to  be  mistaken.  It  is  really 
kind  in  him  to  think  of  the  little  girl's 
comfort,  when,  as  he  says,  she  is  noth 
ing  to  him.  He  is  right,  too,  in  saying 
that  he  knows  I  want  every  body  in  my 
house  comfortable.  I  do.  He  is  right 
about  his  mother,  also.  Tabitha  is  very 
unreasonable  about  this  little  girl;  but 
then  all  women  are  unreasonable  some 
times.  I  shall  not  tell  her  about  this 
letter.  It  would  only  make  her  fret, 
and  do  no  good,  for  the  little  girl  must 
have  the  stove."  And  without  further 
meditation,  honest  John  Mallane  went 
and  ordered  that  a  stove  should  be  put 
up  immediately  in  the  small  bedroom. 

Paul's  letter  did  make  Tabitha  Mal 
lane  u  fret  "  that  very  evening. 

"When  husband  and  baby  were  asleep, 
she  laid  down  the  stocking  which  she 
was  .mending  beside  the  cradle,  rose, 
took  down  John  Mallane's  coat  from  its 
accustomed  hook,  and  placing  her  hand 
in  the  inside  pocket,  drew  forth  all  the 
letters  which  the  mail  had  brought  him 
that  day.  This  act  usually  closed  her 
day's  work.  John  Mallane  confided  to 
her  very  little  of  his  business  affairs. 
Early  in  their  married  life  he  had  said,  in 
reply  to  one  of  her  questions,  "  Mother, 
you  attend  to  the  house,  and  I  will  at 
tend  to  the  shop.  You  would  not  half 
understand  business  matters  if  I  should 
try  to  explain  them,  and  then  you  would 
be  all  the  time  worrying  over  what  you 
knew  nothing  about,  and  that  would 
worry  me.  Leave  me  to  attend  to  the 
business ;  the  house  and  the  children  are 
enough  for  you."  Tabitha  Mallane 
thought  otherwise.  Although  she  had 
a  passion  for  that  employment,  her  eager 
faculties  reached  out  beyond  her  nightly 
stocking-darning.  What  was  the  yearly 
income?  Was  money  being  made?  Was 
money  being  saved  for  all  these  chil 
dren,  or  would  they  some  time  come  to 
want  ?  All  these  were  vital  questions  to 


A  WOMAN'S  RIGHT. 


43 


lier ;  the  last  a  spectre  that  often  rose  up 
and  horrified  her  in  the  midst  of  plenty. 
The  fear  of  coming  to  want,  the  selfish 
insanity  which  has  made  miserable  so 
many  lives,  poor  Tabitha  Mallane  had 
inherited  from  her  mother,  who  lived 
and  died  in  the  midst  of  abundance,  yet 
never  enjoyed  the  good  things  of  this 
world  for  a  single  moment,  for  fear  that 
some  day  she  might  wake  up  and  find 
them  gone.  Tabitha  Mallane  knew  her 
husband  too  well  to  trouble  him  further 
with  financial  questions.  Yet  she  deter 
mined  to  be  answered,  nevertheless. 
Thus  she  commenced  the  nightly  prac 
tice  of  extracting  from  his  pockets  and 
private  desk,  his  memoranda  and  busi 
ness  letters.  By  reading  orders,  receipts, 
and  bills  of  sale;  by  additions  and 
deductions,  she  managed  to  give  herself 
a  partial  yet  tolerable  knowledge  of  the 
financial  status  of  her  husband's  affairs. 
If  her  conscience  ever  reproved  her  for 
the  deceptive  means  which  she  took  to 
obtain  this  knowledge,  she  re-assured 
herself  with  the  thought  that  she  made 
no  bad  use  of  it.  Besides,  in  reality, 
was  it  not  her  business  quite  as  much  as 
it  was  his  ?  Was  not  her  share  of  the 
Bard  homestead  invested  in  this  busi 
ness?  Had  she  not  a  perfect  right  to 
look  after  her  own  money,  if  John  Mal 
lane,  like  all  other  men,  did  think  tliat 
no  woman  could  understand  the  compli 
cities  of  trade?  John  Mallane  slept 
too  soundly  and  snored  too  loudly  for 
his  wife  to  incur  any  risk  in  the  time  of 
looking  over  his  business  accounts.  But 
to-night  she  could  scarcely  wait  till  the 
nasal  trumpet  began  to  sound  in  the 
adjoining  bedroom.  That  afternoon  the 
stove  had  been  put  up  in  Eirene's  room, 
and  she  had  token  in  her  own  hand, 
from  the  pine  stand,  a  package  directed 
to  that  troublesome  girl,  "  care  of  Hon. 
John  Mallane,"  in  Paul's  boldest  writ 
ing.  Nothing  had  been  said  to  her 
about  either  package  or  stove,  yet  she 
was  sure  that  both  came  from  her  son. 
She  felt  abused  and  indignant.  Would 
that  perverse  boy  be  the  death  of  his 
mother  ?  Were  husband  and  son  com 
bined  to  destroy  the  dearest  ambition  of 
her  lifetime  ? 


She  would  see.  Her  hand  trembled, 
and  the  lines  ab.mt  her  wide  mouth 
grew  more  rigid,  as  she  drew  the  pack 
age  of  letters  from  the  coat-pocket. 

She  had  only  heart  for  one  to-night; 
she  singled  it  out  immediately  and  drop 
ped  the  others  back  into  their  receptacle. 

She  sat  down  again  by  the  cradle,  and 
her  pale  face  grew  still  paler  as  she  opened 
the  letter  and  read:  "Dear  Father: 
You  will  oblige  me  by  delivering  to  Miss 
Eirene  Vale  the  accompanying  pack 
age  ;  "  and  further  on,  as  she  came  to — 
"  Please  say  nothing  of  this  letter  to 
mother,  you  know  her  weakness,  etc." 
the  rigid  lines  grew  almost  ghastly,  and 
she  said :  "  It  is  what  I  expected." 
And  when  she  read  to  the  concluding 
sentence  she  reiterated  :  "  '  Afraid  that 
I  will  fall  in  love ! '  Afraid  that  you 
will !  Foolish  boy  !  You  are  in  love, 
and  your  father  is  as  blind  as  a  bat. 
You  will  have  your  way  for  a  while. 
Your  fever  will  run  itself  out.  But  you 
shall  never  marry  her,  never." 

The  next  day,  when  Eirene  returned, 
as  Mrs.  Mallane  heard  her  step  in  the 
hall  and  thought  of  Paul's  letter,  her 
first  impulse  was  to  open  the  door  and 
drive  her  from  the  house. 

But  twenty-five  years  of  life  with  John 
Mallane  had  taught  her  at  least  some 
thing  of  self-control.  To  send  the  girl 
from  the  house  now,  she  knew  would  be 
to  madden  Paul,  and  drive  him  to  some 
extreme  act,  and  to  call  down  upon 
herself  the  only  wrath  which  she  feared 
upon  earth — the  wrath  of  her  husband. 
She  had  resolved  to  control  both  hus 
band  and  son,  and  to  do  this,  she  knew 
that  she  must  first,  in  part  at  least,  con 
trol  herself.  If  Eirene  could  have  con 
ceived  of  the  contending  passions  in  this 
woman's  heart,  and  of  her  pitiless  anger 
toward  herself,  she  would  no  more  have 
dared  to  approach  her  with  thanks  and 
gratitude  than  she  would  have  dared  to 
rush  into  the  face  of  any  infuriated  an 
imal. 

In  comparison  with  what  she  felt,  Ta 
bitha  Mallane's  words  to  Eirene  were 
merciful;  and  her  exclamation  to  tho 
minister,  "God  only  knows  the  trial 
she  is  to  me !  "  was  no  exaggeration. 


44 


EIBEXE  : 


Paul  counted  the  cost  of  angering  his 
mother  when  he  wrote  the  letter  and 
sent  the  package.  But  she  had  angered 
him  so  much  in  sending  Eirene  to  Hill 
top,  that  the  satisfaction  of  inflicting 
punishment  upon  her  entered  into  the 
purer  pleasure  of  purchasing  the  pic 
tures. 

He  saw  them  in  Williams  &  Stevens' 
window  on  his  way  back  from  Marlboro 
Hill.  And  the  face  of  Evangeline,  that 
love  of  all  college  youth,  her  seeking 
eyes  so  full  of  tender  quest,  the  homely 
dress  she  wore,  made  him  think  of 
Eirene.  Thus,  as  so  many  young  men 
more  or  less  romantic  have  done,  he 
bought  one  copy  for  his  Cambridge  room 
and  another  for  her.  "  It  will  brighten 
up  that  den  a  little,"  he  said  to  himself. 
"And  this  figure  of  Faith,  how  like 
her's!  the  same  pure  girlish  outline, 
though  with  her  the  cross  is  not  before 
her,  but  on  her  shofllders.  She  shall 
have  tliis  picture  too.  How  angry  it 
will  make  mother.  I  am  glad  of  it.  She 
needn't  have  sent  her  off.  She  will  find 
she  can't  balk  me." 

Paul  had  a  pleasant  visit  at  Marlboro 
Hill.  If  he  had  been  in  his  wonted 
mood,  it  would  have  been  to  him  a  sea 
son  of  marked  triumph.  The  Cuban 
beauty  was  altogether  too  dark  for  his 
fancy.  Even  her  million  in  sugar  and 
slaves  was  not  altogether  to  his  fastidious 
taste.  But  Isabella  Prescott,  who  some 
way  he  had  fancied  would  be  as  bony 
and  freckled  as  Dick,  to  his  surprise 
he  found  his  opposite ;  a  round-limbed 
blonde,  with  a  head  covered  with  tiny 
feathery  curls;  a  creature  full  of  kitten 
ish  pranks  and  coquettish  ways,  with  a 
twinkle  in  her  small  eyes  which  might 
have  been  called  a  wink  in  any  body  but 
a  Prescott,  and  which  in  her  was  the 
sign  and  seal  of  the  coquetry  which  she 
had  already  cultivated  and  consummated 
as  an  art. 

Six  weeks  earlier,  this  gay  creature 
would  have  set  Paul's  nerves  tingling 
with  her  witching  ways,  and  he  would 
have  opened  a  campaign  of  flirtation 
which  would  have  ended  in  his  subjuga 
tion  or  in  hers  for  the  time  being.  But 
to  his  own  astonishment,  and  to  her  ex 


treme  mortification,  for  once  lie  found 
himself  indifferent.  He  was  by  no  meani 
in  a  normal  mood  ;  he  was  preoccupied, 
and  found  himself  constantly  comparing1 
these  brilliant  beauties  of  the  world  to 
one  whose  preeminent  charm  was  her 
un  worldliness,and  her  utter  unconscious 
ness  of  all  the  little  arts  which  world- 
taught  women  practice  to  fascinate  men. 

Dashing  young  ladies  of  the  world  who 
carried  with  them  the  prestige  of  family, 
of  wealth,  of  beauty,  were  the  only  ones 
that  Paul  had  ever  aspired  to  conquer. 
Thus  it  was  an  utterly  new  sensation  for 
him  to  find  himself  measuring  all  women 
by  a  new  standard,  and  that  one  which 
he  had  never  found  in  the  merely  fash 
ionable  world.  He  was  vexed  with  him 
self,  and  tried  to  banish  from  his  thoughts 
the  haunting  face  which  continually 
came  between  him  and  all  Bell  Prescott's 
dangerous  ways. 

"Here  is  a  match  for  me,"  he  said  to 
himself.  "  The  heiress  of  Marlboro  Hill ! 
Dick  says  that  she  inherits  this  magnifi 
cent  place  from  her  mother,  to  say  nuth- 
ing  of  a  fortune  in  railroad  stock,  and  her 
charming  self.  She  is  a  proper  match 
for  me.  Confound  it!  Why  am  I  not 
making  the  most  of  my  chance  ?  Dick 
is  willing,  and  she — well,  one  can't  be 
certain  of  such  a  witch  of  a  girl  in  three 
days.  What  she's  up  to  now,  is  to  cap 
tivate  me.  But  in  the  end,  I'll  make 
her  love  me,  that  is  if  she  can  love,  which 
I  rather  doubt.  Why  am  I  not  about 
it?  Why ?" 

At  the  close  of  the  visit,  Miss  Isabella 
Prescott  found  herself  piqued  and  disap 
pointed.  Youth,  and  wealth,  and  beauty, 
are  not  accustomed  to  indifference,  and 
cannot  bear  it  patiently.  Yet  Bell  Pres 
cott  had  borne  it  from  one  whom  she 
had  expected  to  conquer,  and  whom  slie 
had  intended,  although  in  a  lady-like 
manner,  to  treat  with  condescension. 

u  Dick !  "  she  said  to  her  brother,  after 
Paul's  departure,  "  I  thought  you  said 
that  your  chum  was  a  parcenu  f  " 

u  Well,  I  meant  that  his  father  came 
up  from  nothing.  Of  course,  if  I  hadn't 
considered  him  a  gentleman,  I  shouldn't 
have  invited  him  here.  His  mother,  I 
believe,  is  of  old  stock,  but  ran  avvajr 


A  WOMAN'S  RIGHT. 


and  married  a  journeyman  mechanic. 
The  old  fellow  is  tolerably  well  off  now, 
and  very  influential  in  a  small  way. 
I've  seen  him." 

"Xever  mind  his  father  or  mother. 
He  has  the  air  of  a  grandee,  of  a  prince 
of  the  blood,  and  he  don't  take  it  on  ;  its 
natural.  Why  didn't  you  tell  me  he 
was  so  high  and  mighty?  Why,  he  was 
as  cool  and  indifferent  to  me  as  could 
be.  I  don't  think  he  likes  me  a  bit.  I 
wouldn't  mind  if  he  wasn't  so  handsome 
and  clever.  You  did  not  overrate  him, 
Dick." 

"  Of  course  I  didn't,"  said  Dick. 

"  Really  his  manners  are  quite  Euro 
pean,  yet  you  say  he  has  never  been 
abroad  ?  But  I  blame  you,  Dick,  I  do, 
for  talking  to  me  as  if  he  would  be  ready 
to  kneel  at  my  feet  the  moment  he  reach 
ed  here.  You  knew  better.  You  shouldn't 
have  told  me  such  a  story.  I  can  tell 
you,  it  will  be  no  every-day  conquest  to 
subdue  him." 

"  Don't  take  on,  Bell.  Wait  your  time. 
He's  in  love  with  a  shop-girl  now,  but 
he'll  get  over  it." 

"  A  shop-girl !     What  do  you  mean  ? " 

"  Why,  I  mean  that  he  has  done  what 
I  thought  he  never  would  do ;  he  has 
fallen  in  love  with  a  girl  who  works  in 
one  of  his  father's  shops.  You  ought  to 
hear  him  rave  about  her.  But  he'll 
never  marry  her.  He  is  too  sensitive  on 
the  subject  of  position.  I  am  perfectly 
certain  that  he  lias  always  intended  to 
contract  a  marriage  that  would  strength 
en  and  elevate  his  own,  not  one  that 
would  drag  him  back  to  old  antecedents. 
But  for  the  time  being  he  has  lost  his 
wits  over  this  girl." 

"  Indeed !  "  was  the  young  lady's  only 
reply. 

"  If  you  want  to  make  a  conquest, 
Bell,  you  can  do  it  just  the  same ;  only 
wait  till  he  gets  over  the  shop-girl, 
take  your  turn." 

"  Indeed !  Take  my  turn  after  a  shop 
girl  !  Where's  your  family  pride,  Dick 
Prescott?  I  am  not  so  poorly  off  for 
admirers,  I  can  tell  you."  And  the 
young  lady  perked  up  her  piquant  nose, 
and  puckered  up  her  pretty  little  eyes  in 


a  fashion  which  made  her  anger  very 
comical. 

"  Oh,  you  will  always  have  all  the 
beaux  you  want,  Bell.  But  you  seemed 
piqued  over  Mallane's  coolness,  and  I 
was  explaining  it.  Of  course,  you  must 
wait  for  one  flame  to  subside  before  you 
can  expect  that  he  will  feel  another. 
Wait  your  time,  then  conquer  him.  I'd 
like  to  punish  him  for  this  shop-girl 
nonsense  myself.  He's  fallen  in  love 
contrary  to  all  my  advice.  Of  course, 
Bell,  under  any  circumstances,  you 
wouldn't  be  in  a  hurry  to  commit  your 
self.  You  know  that  you  can  make  a 
higher  match.  In  one  sense,  it  would  be 
a  coming  down  for  a  Prescott  to  marry 
a  Mallane,  especially  to  bear  the  name. 
But  there's  no  denying  one  thing,  Prince 
Mallane  would  make  a  deucedly  pre 
sentable  husband.  You  might  marry  a 
name  and  a  fortune  and  all  that  sort  of 
thing,  and  the  man  belonging  to  them  be 
a  cursed  bore,  you  know.  So  take  time 
to  decide  which  you  want  most, — the 
man,  or  the  accompaniments.  The 
chances  are  against  your  having  both. 
It  will  be  worth  while  for  you  to  bring 
Mallane  to  your  feet,  whatever  you  do 
with  him  afterwards." 

"Indeed!"  again  said  Bell,  as  she 
made  a  mouth  at  him  and  a  courtesy, 
and  vanished. 

A  few  moments  afterwards,  she  stood 
prinking  and  making  pretty  face?,  and 
throwing  herself  into  graceful  attitudes 
before  her  mirror. 

"A  shop-girl,  ah!  I  never  had  to 
wait  for  a  shop  girl  before.  I  wonder 
what  she's  like?  Of  course,  he  thinks 
that  she  is  prettier  than  I  am !  She's  a 
common  little  rustic,  I  know.  Then  this 
is  why  you  were  so  cool  to  me,  Sir 
Knight  ?  This  is  why  you  watched  me 
dance,  and  sing,  and  do  all  manner  of 
pretty  things,  as  unmoved  as  a  stone  ? 
Very  well,  yon  won't  always.  My  day 
will  come.  Then  I'll  teach  you  whether 
you  will  sit  by  my  side  like  your  grand 
father  carved  in  alabaster !  I'll  go  and 
tell  Delora  about  you,"  and  with  these 
words  she  capered  off  to  the  boudoir  of 
the  Cuban  heiress. 


46 


EIRENI: 


V. 


KIRENS'S   SUMMER. 

IK  the  Spring,  Eirene  left  the  house 
of  Mr.  Mallane  and  went  to  live  with 
her  friend,  Tilda  Stade,  in  the  family  of 
Brother  Goodlove,  John  Mallane's  fore 
man.  Prom  the  advent  of  the  store  and 
the  pictures,  Eirene  felt  that  she  must 
go  away  from  the  presence  of  Mrs.  Mal 
lane,  for  she  had  every  reason  to  feel 
that  she  was  only  a  tolerated  member 
of  that  lady's  household. 

"  She  dislikes  me,"  said  the  child,  "  be 
cause  she  thinks  that  I  am  trying  to  make 
myself  more  than  God  intended  I  should 
be.  And  she  thinks  that  is  the  trouble 
with  all  my  poor  family,  that  we  are  not 
contented  with  our  condition,  and  yet 
are  not  efficient  enough  to  .better  it. 
'  Poor  and  shiftless,'  she  called  us  ;  tliat 
sounds  hard.  Poor  father  don't  know 
how  to  get  on,  but  he  has  always  work 
ed  hard  ;  sowed,  and  others  have  reap 
ed  his  harvests.  Oh,  if  he  could  only 
get  on  well  once  !  But  I  must  go  away 
from  here.  It  hurts  me  to  stay  where 
I  am  not  wanted.  Father  thought  it 
would  be  so  nice  for  me  to  live  here,  be 
cause  Mr.  Mallane  seemed  so  pleasant. 


Mr.  Mallane  is  pleasant ;  he  doesn't  seea 
to  think  so  poorly  of  us.  I  noticed  he 
was  very  kind  to  father  the  other  day  ; 
urged  him  to  stay  to  dinner.  I  said 
nothing,  because  I  feared  that  Mrs.  Mal 
lane  would  not  like  it.  I  will  go  to  the 
boarding-house.  I  have  dreaded  to  go 
there  because  it  is  so  noisy.  But  I  will 
give  up  my  French.  I  can  give  it  up, 
although  I  like  it  so  well.  I  never  stud 
ied  it  because  I  thought  it  fine,  but  be 
cause  I  love  the  language.  I  will  tell 
Tilda,  to-morrow,  and  see  if  I  can  room 
with  her." 

Tilda  Stade  worked  next  to  Eirene 
in  the  shop.  She  was  a  good  girl — a 
zealous  Methodist,  whose  piety  held  her 
apart  from  her  more  rude  and  boister 
ous  companions.  Although  she  regard 
ed  Eirene  as  an  unconverted  sinner,  still 
"  in  the  gall  of  bitterness  and  bonds  of 
iniquity,"  she  had  become  personally 
warmly  attached  to  her.  Her  gentle 
ness  and  refinement,  showing  in  such 
striking  contrast  to  many  of  those 
around  her,  were  very  attractive  to 
Tilda,  and  from  the  first  she  establish 
ed  herself  as  the  uncompromising  friend 


A  WOMAN'S  EIGHT. 


47 


of  the  new  hand  upon  every  possible 
occasion. 

When  Eirene  told  her  that  she  was 
going  to  leave  the  house  of  Mr.  Mallane, 
she  replied  that  she  was  glad  of  it,  and 
there  was  something  better  in  store  for 
her  than  that  wicked  boarding-house, 
where  she  herself  could  scarcely  find  a 
moment's  quiet  for  secret  meditation 
and  prayer.  Brother  Goodlove  had  of 
fered  her  the  front  chamber  in  his  house, 
and  she  had  only  been  waiting  to  find 
a  quiet  girl  to  share  it  with  her,  so  that 
she  could  afford  to  take  it. 

Eirene,  who  had  a  terror  of  the  board 
ing-house,  was  made  quite  happy  by 
this  proposition. 

Thus,  one  May  evening  not  long  after, 
Brother  Goodlove  himself  carried  her 
small  trunk  across  the  street  to  his  story- 
and-a-half  house,  which  stood  in  a  gay 
little  garden  beside  the  shops.  Eirene 
followed,  carrying  Moses  Loplolly's  par 
rot,  which,  for  the  sake  of  the  giver,  she 
had  named  Momo.  Momo  was  as  pret 
ty  and  prating  as  ever,  and,  greatly  to 
Eirene's  discomfiture,  went  out  of  the 
house  crying  :  "  Paul !  Paul  !  Pretty 
Rene!  Mother  1  mother!  no  you  don't ! 
Pretty  Paul  1 " 

Mrs.  Mallane  had  never  objected  to 
the  presence  of  Momo,  because  he  af 
forded  much  amusement  to  the  children. 
He  had  a  remarkably  facile  tongue  even 
for  a  parrot,  and  caught  new  words 
and  phrases  from  the  little  ones  every 
day.  Tabitha  Mallane  had  heard  him 
sing  out  "  Paul,"  hundreds  of  times, 
but  it  never  sounded  as  it  did  to-night, 
coming  back  through  the  street,  and 
even  from  Brother  Goodlove's  door. 
She  stood  in  the  open  window,  with 
the  baby  in  her  arms,  watching  Eirene's 
departure.  And  as  she  heard  the  par 
rot's  cry,  her  whole  face  darkened. 

"  Oh,  the  hateful  huzzy,  to  teach  the 
bird  such  talk  as  that !  And  she'll 
hang  the  little  wretch  in  her  window, 
to  call  my  boy  in,  will  she  !  " 

"  Mother  !  mother  1  no  you  don't ! " 
screamed  the  parrot. 

"  She  taught  it  that  in  my  own  house ! " 

Tabitha  Mallane,  in  her  anger,  was 
entirely  forgetful  of  the  fact  that  Momo 


had  learned  this  precious  bit  of  satire 
from  her  youngest  son,  her  own  little 
impish  Jack. 

"  Well,  she's  gone,"  the  mother  went 
on,  "  out  of  my  house,  at  least,  but  only 
across  the  street.  She  is  cunning.  She 
knows  that  she  will  have  a  better  chance 
to  see  him  there  than  here.  But  you 
have  a  long  head,  young  lady,  if  you 
think  you  will  outwit  me." 

If  Tabitha  Mallane's  hate  had  allow 
ed  her  reason  any  action,  her  own  good 
sense  would  have  told  her  that  all  her 
accusations  were  false.  She  knew  bet 
ter  even  when  she  made  them.  She 
knew  enough  of  the  simplicity  of  this 
girl's  nature,  to  know  that  she  had  laid 
no  traps  to  entice  her  son  ;  that  all  such 
devices  were  unknown  to  her  thoughts. 
She  knew,  in  her  inmost  heart,  that  she 
only  hated  Eirene  because  there  was 
that  in  her  face  and  in  her  nature  which 
would  be  attractive  to  Paul ;  that  she 
hated  her  because  she  was  lovely,  and 
because  her  loveliness  was  in  the  way ; 
and  the  more  conscious  she  felt  of  her 
own  injustice,  the  more  bitterly  she  ac 
cused  its  object. 

Eirene  reached  her  little  chamber, 
with  Mr.  Momo  screaming  at  his  utmost 
voice.  She  gave  the  cage  a  very  hu 
mane  and  positive  little  shake  as  she 
set  it  down,  and  said  : 

"  Momo,  how  can  you — how  can  you 
be  so  naughty  ? " 

Momo,  conscious  that  he  was  in  dis 
grace,  thrust  his  bill  into  his  breast, 
shook  his  head,  and  blinked  solemnly, 
first  with  one  eye,  then  with  the  other, 
and  at  last  said,  in  a  very  subdued 
voice,  "  Pretty  Paul !  " 

"  Who  taught  him  that  ?  "  asked  Til 
da,  abruptly. 

"  He  learned  it  of  the  children.  You 
can't  think  how  soon  he  picks  up  words. 
The  first  thing  we  know,  he  will  be  re 
peating  our  talk." 

"  Well,  if  I  were  you,  I  would  rather 
have  him  repeat  any  thing  than  '  Paul.' 
In  my  estimation,  Mr.  Paul  Mallane  is  a 
very  wicked  young  man,  and  I  shouldn't 
want  any  bird  of  mine  calling  out  his 
name." 

"  Oh,  I  hope  he  is  not  wicked,"  said 


48 


EIBENE : 


Eirene,  with  feeling,  as  she  looked  at 
the  two  pictures  which  he  had  sent  her, 
already  hanging  in  their  assigned  places. 
"  His  father  and  mother  seem  to  live  in 
him ;  they  would  never  get  over  it,  if 
he  were  to  disappoint  them." 

"  Oh,  he  won't  disappoint  them ! 
Haven't  they  brought  him  up  to  be 
what  he  is  ? — though,  how  they  can, 
they  both  praying  and  speaking  in 
meeting,  is  more  than  I  can  understand. 
If  Sister  Mallane  had  spent  her  time 
praying  for  his  soul  and  fitting  him  for 
the  itinerant  ministry,  instead  of  bring 
ing  him  up  as  she  has  done,  then  she 
would  have  done  her  duty.  Jack's  to 
be  the  minister,  I  believe.  They'll  give 
the  first  son  to  the  world  and  the  devil, 
and  the  last  one  to  the  Lord." 

"  How  do  you  mean  that  they  have 
brought  him  up  ? "  asked  Eirene,  doubt 
fully.  Notwithstanding  his  thoughtful 
kindness  to  her,  she  felt  an  unwilling 
consciousness  that  Mr.  Paul  Mallaiie 
might  not  be  quite  as  good  as  he  ought 
to  be,  and  she  was  naturally  anxious  to 
lay  the  fault  to  his  parental  training. 

"I  mean,"  said  Tilda,  "that  they 
have  always  indulged  him  in  every 
thing.  They  have  made  him  feel  that 
nobody  else  is  quite  aa  handsome  or 
quite  as  smart  as  he  is.  He  has  grown 
to  think  that  nothing  in  the  world  is 
quite  good  enough  for  him,  and  has 
come  to  look  down  even  on  his  own 
flesh  and  blood.  If  the  other  girls  felt 
as  I  do,  they  wouldn't  seem  so  pleased 
and  flattered  every  time  he  comes  into 
the  shop  and  notices  them.  His  very 
notice  there  is  an  insult,  for  he  never 
speaks  to  one  of  them  outside  of  it. 
He  knows  better  than  to  make  any  of 
his  fine  speeches  to  me.  I  want  nobody 
to  speak  to  me  in  the  shop,  that  can't 
speak  to  me  out  of  it.  I  don't  believe 
he'd  turn  his  white  hand  over  to  help  a 
shop-girl  if  she  were  dying." 

<l  Oh,  you  judge  him  too  hardly,"  said 
Eirene.  "  He  can  be  very  kind.  He 
sent  me  those  two  pictures  which  you 
admire  so  much,  and  I  am  nothing  to 
him  at  all.  He  never  spoke  to  me  but 
once,  and  then  it  was  through  a  mis 
take.  You  know  I  have  not  the  slight 


est  claim  upon  him,  and  it  seemed  very 
good  of  him  to  remember  me  in  such  a 
way." 

Tilda  looked  amazed  and  exceedingly 
displeased. 

"  Eirene  Vale  !  "  she  said,  with  deep 
solemnity,  "  if  Mr.  Paul  Mallane  sends 
you  presents,  he  does  it  for  no  good 
purpose.  If  you  had  known  what  is 
due  to  yourself,  you  would  have  sent 
them  back  as  soon  as  they  came." 

"  I  did  not  know  who  sent  them  when 
they  came,  nor  for  a  long  time  after," 
said  Eirene,  her  voice  trembling  slight 
ly,  as  it  always  did  when  she  was  fright 
ened.  "  I  only  knew  that  Mr.  Paul  sent 
them  to  me,  when  the  first  number  of 
this  magazine  came.  On  it  was  writ 
ten,  '  From  Paul  Mallane,'  and  then  I 
saw  that  it  was  the  same  hand  which 
directed  the  pictures.  If  it  was  wrong 
to  keep  them,  I  am  sorry  that  I  did  ; 
but  nobody  but  father  ever  made  me  a 
present  before.  It  does  not  seem  as  if 
a  person  who  thought  any  harm  would 
send  me  such  a  picture  as  '  Faith.'  " 

"  You  know  nothing  of  the  wicked 
ness  of  men,"  said  Tilda,  compassion 
ately,  in  a  tone  which  indicated  that 
she  knew  all  about  it.  "  Mr.  Paul  Mal 
lane  is  very  old  for  his  years.  Of  course, 
he  can  see  what  you  are  ;  any  one  with 
half  an  eye  could  see  that.  If  he  sent 
you  anything,  it  would  be  something 
which  he  knew  would  please  you.  What 
are  the  magazines  ?  Trifles, — full  of 
foolish  travels  and  fashions  and  comic 
pictures,  to  make  you  laugh  and  forget 
your  soul's  salvation.  When  the  next 
one  comes,  I  advise  you  to  send  it  back. 
Show  him  there's  one  shop-girl  that 
don't  want  any  of  his  attentions." 

Eirene  made  no  answer.  Her  gaze 
was  fixed  upon  "  Faith,"  and,  as  she 
looked,  she  seemed  to  be  far  away. 

Tilda  turned  toward  her  her  small, 
keen  eyes,  and  narrow,  perceptive  fore 
head,  which  had  no  power  of  reflection 
in  it,  and  came  to  two  conclusions.  The 
first  was,  that  the  beauty  of  the  face  be 
fore  her,  without  doubt,  was  very  attrac 
tive  to  Mr.  Paul  Mallane.  The  second 
was,  that  she,  Tilda  Stade,  in  virtue  of 
six  years'  seniority  and  vastly  superior 


A  WOMAN'S  RIGHT. 


knowledge  of  men,  would  defend  and 
save  this  innocent  lamb  from  the  im 
pending  wolf,  even  when  he  came  in 
the  unexceptional  clothing  of  a  young 
gentleman  of  the  world. 

Brother  Goodlove's  front  chamber  did 
not  prove  to  be  a  paradise.  The  after 
noon  sun  shone  full  upon  its  low  roof 
and  unsheltered  windows,  fading  its  cot 
ton  carpet,  blistering  its  cheap  furniture, 
and  making  its  air  stifling  with  heat. 
In  the  evening,  when  their  day's  work 
was  done,  Eirene  found  it  scarcely  easier 
to  breathe  there  than  in  the  close  atmos 
phere  of  the  overcrowded  shop.  "Weary 
with  her  ten  hours'  toil,  she  would  sit 
on  a  low  chair  by  the  open  window, 
vainly  waiting  for  a  breeze  to  come  in 
to  cool  her  throbbing  temples,  and  rest 
her  a  little  for  the  lesson  which  she  so 
much  desired  to  learn.  Across  the  street, 
through  the  boughs  of  the  apricot  tree, 
she  saw  the  window  where  she  used  to 
sit,  half  hidden  within  its  cool  curtains 
of  summer  vines ;  and  she  might  have 
wished  herself  back  again  in  the  bare 
little  room,  if  it  had  not  been  for  the 
memory  of  Tabitha  Mallane's  unfriend 
ly  face. 

Tilda  Stade  said  that  she  "  desired 
only  the  wisdom  which  cometh  from  on 
high,"  and,  therefore,  had  very  little 
sympathy  with  Eirene's  pursuit  of  earth 
ly  knowledge.  Indeed,  it  was  only  on 
class-meeting  and  prayer-meeting  nights, 
when  Tilda  was  absent  telling  "  what  the 
Lord  had  done  for  her  soul,"  that  Ei 
rene  could  study  at  all.  Tilda's  favor 
ite  anxiety  was  for  Eirene's  conversion  ; 
and  as  her  zeal  was  not  at  all  according 
to  knowledge,  she  felt  it  to  be  her  duty 
to  labor  perpetually  for  this  much-de 
sired  object.  No  matter  how  high  the 
thermometer  stood,  nor  how  tired  Eirene 
might  be,  nor  how  hard  she  herself  might 
have  worked,  this  devout  young  woman 
always  had  vitality  enough  left  to  ex 
hort  her  friend  by  the  hour  to  repent  of 
her  sins  and  "  give  her  heart  to  Jesus." 
She  acknowledged  to  herself  that  she 
did  not  understand  Eirene's  case ;  and 
the  more  it  puzzled  her,  the  more  ex 
treme  grew  her  unction,  and  the  more 
fearfully  long  her  lectures.  While  Ei- 
4 


rene  sat  beside  one  window,  she  usually 
sat  by  the  other,  on  a  high,  straight- 
backed  chair,  ostensibly  to  sew.  But 
in  a  very  few  moments  the  work  was 
sure  to  drop  into  her  lap,  and,  with  her 
feet  firmly  fixed  on  a  high  stool  before 
her,  she  would  plant  her  elbows  upon 
her  knees,  thrust  her  chin  in  her  hands, 
and  set  her  sharp,  inquiring  eyes  upon 
the  face  drooping  below  the  level  of  the 
stand  which  divided  them.  It  never  re 
mained  for  any  length  of  time  a  silent 
gaze.  The  large,  patient  look  fixed  up 
on  the  difficult  page  always  provoked 
Tilda  to  exhortation,  and  all  the  more 
because  it  in  no  way  coincided  with  the 
expression  which  she  thought  an  uncon 
verted  sinner's  countenance  ought  to 
wear. 

"  How  you  can  look  like  that  over  a 
Catholic  French  book,  is  more  than  I 
can  understand,"  she  would  exclaim. 
"  If  it  was  your  Testament,  Rene,  and 
you  were  reading  about  your  Saviour, 
then  I  should  know." 

At  the  first  exclamation,  Eirene  al 
ways  laid  her  book  down,  knowing 
well  that  any  further  attempt  to  study 
would  be  useless. 

"  If  you  would  only  fall  down  before 
your  Saviour,  confess  your  sins,  and  get 
the  evidence  that  you  were  accepted,  I 
shouldn't  be  troubled  about  you  any 
longer,"  Tilda  would  say. 

"  I  have  prayed  ever  since  I  can  re 
member,  and  every  day  ask  my  Saviour 
to  forgive  my  sins,  and  give  me  strength 
to  do  right,"  Eirene  answered. 

"  That  makes  you  all  the  worse.  You 
pray  in  your  own  strength.  As  long  as 
you  are  not  converted  and  haven't  re 
ceived  the  witness,  your  prayers  don't 
get  through  the  ceiling." 

Eirene  did  not  understand  these  fine 
points  in  Tilda's  theology.  The  faith 
of  the  gospel,  as  it  had  been  taught  to 
her  by  her  mother,  was  very  simple. 
"  Ask,  and  ye  shall  receive ;  seek,  and 
ye  shall  find ;  knock,  and  it  shall  be 
opened  unto  you,"  were  words  which 
she  believed  with  unquestioning  faith, 
and  obeyed  with  the  simplicity  of  a 
child.  Almost  from  babyhood  she  had 
been  accustomed  to  carry  all  her  little 


50 


EIRENE: 


eins  and  sorrows  to  this  Saviour,  whom 
she  had  been  taught  to  regard  as  an 
Elder  Brother,  who  loved  little  children, 
and  who  was  interested  in  all  that  con 
cerned  their  happiness.  Now,  to  be  told 
that  He  cared  nothing  for  her,  and  would 
pay  no  attention  whatever  to  her  pray 
ers  because  she  was  so  wicked,  was  to 
her  a  view  of  Christ  unprecedented  and 
appalling.  The  lack  of  self-poise  was 
a  weakness  in  her  character.  Her  deli 
cate,  work-worn  nerves,  her  tender  and 
humble  heart,  were  no  match  for  Tilda's 
pugnacious  persistency.  Thus  this  de 
voted  missionary  often  enjoyed  the  par 
tial  satisfaction  of  seeing  the  eyes  be 
fore  her  suffused  with  tears,  and  the 
head  bowed  in  bewildered  sorrow.  For, 
after  all,  Eirene  knew  no  other  way 
than  to  go  on  praying  and  believing, 
just  as  she  had  always  done. 

Then  Tilda  would  exclaim,  in  joyful 
enthusiasm : 

"  You  are  almost  in  the  kingdom, 
Rene.  If  you  were  only  under  convic 
tion,  and  would  give  up  all  for  Jesus — 
if  you  could  only  feel  that  you  were 
willing  to  be  lost,  if  it  were  His  will, 
then  you  would  have  the  evidence.  But 
your  own  goodness  is  only  filthy  rags. 
It'll  never  save  you.  Are  you  willing  to 
give  up  every  vanity  for  the  Saviour  ?  " 

"  I  hope  so,"  was  the  humble  reply. 

"Are  you  willing  to  take  that  ribbon 
out  of  your  hair  ?  " 

"  Oh,  yes." 

"  Are  you  willing  to  have  the  small 
pox,  and  look  like  a  fright  ?  " 

« I— don't  know." 

"  Then  you  are  NOT  a  Christian,  and 
you  won't  be  till  you  are  willing,"  was 
Tilda's  conclusive  rejoinder. 

"  Yet  she  is  outwardly  more  consist 
ent  than  many  professors,"  Tilda  would 
ejaculate  to  herself.  "  But,  then,  that's 
natural  goodness ;  it  won't  save  her ; 
she  has  never  been  under  conviction — 
never  received  the  witness.  She  is  in 
a  state  of  nature.  She  can't  be  saved 
any  more  than  I  could  before  Christ  par 
doned  me." 

In  order  to  feel  certain  of  Eirene's 
safety,  she  wished  to  see  her  pass  through 
precisely  the  same  spiritual  travail  and 


triumph  which  had  been  vouchsafed  to 
herself.  Her  mind  could  comprehend 
no  reason  why  Eirene's  finer  mental  and 
spiritual  organism  would  receive  religion 
through  the  process  of  silent  growth, 
rather  than  by  any  sudden  and  violent 
demonstration  such  as  she  herself  had 
experienced.  The  great  object  of  her 
daily  labors  was  to  make  Eirene  feel  aa 
she  did.  To  gain  this  end,  she  would 
tell  over  and  over  her  own  religious  ex 
perience  :  how  the  sudden  death  of  her 
cousin,  a  gay  young  man,  had  transfixed 
her  with  terror  in  the  midst  of  her  win 
ter  dissipations  of  quilting-bees  and  ap 
ple-parings  ;  how  she  suddenly  discov 
ered  that  she  had  loved  nothing  in  the 
world  so  well  as  this  young  man  ;  how 
she  had  lived  for  him  and  for  herself; 
how  she  had  done  all  in  her  power  to 
injure  Betsey  Boyd,  because  she  feared 
that  this  young  man  loved  Betsey  bet 
ter  than  he  loved  herself;  how,  over  his 
coffin,  she  was  suddenly  overcome  with 
a  consciousness  of  her  sinfulness,  and 
the  fear  of  hell,  whose  terrors  she  did 
not  feel  willing  to  share  even  with  the 
gay  young  man ;  how,  for  weeks,  she 
was  under  conviction  ;  how  she  wept 
and  prayed  at  protracted  meeting ;  how 
she  wrestled  day  and  night,  yet  saw 
only  the  blackness  of  darkness,  and  God 
seemed  to  have  forsaken  her ;  how,  at 
last,  at  the  "  anxious  seat,"  she  cried 
out,  "  O  Lord  !  I  deserve  to  be  lost ! " 
And,  with  these  words,  a  great  light 
shone  about  her.  All  the  brethren 
and  sisters  shouted  "  Glory  !  "  She 
herself  cried,  "  Praise  the  Lord  !  "  fell 
down  in  a  vision,  and  had  the  "  power." 
In  which  she  saw  her  Saviour  come  down 
from  the  skies,  with  a  white  book  in 
His  hand,  on  whose  front  leaf,  in  gold 
letters,  she"  read  :  "  Tilda  Stade,  thy 
sins  are  forgiven  thee."  How,  when 
she  came  to  herself,  she  felt  peace  un 
speakable,  and  knew  that  she  had  re 
ceived  the  white  stone  and  the  new 
name.  She  had  received  the  witness. 
Thus  she  could  point  Eirene  to  the  spot 
— to  the  very  moment  when  the  Saviour 
forgave  her  sins ;  and  this  Eirene  must 
be  able  to  do  before  she  would  be  fit 
for  the  kingdom  of  heaven. 


A  WOMAN'S  RIGHT. 


51 


Eirene,  whose  childish  moods  had 
been  of  a  milder  sort,  who  had  never 
tried  to  injure  any  young  woman,  and 
had  never  been  violently  in  love  with 
any  young  man — who  had  never  expe 
rienced  any  of  Tilda's  vehement  pas 
sions — naturally  felt  a  less  violent  though 
no  less  sincere  sorrow  for  her  sins.  As 
she  listened  wonderingly  to  Tilda's  spir 
itual  story,  she  felt  sure  that  she  could 
never  feel  like  that ;  she  did  not  believe 
that  anything  so  wonderful  could  ever 
happen  to  her.  In  conclusion,  she  would 
drive  Tilda  almost  distracted,  by  saying 
that  she  never  felt  that  she  herself  was 
good — she  knew  that  she  was  not — but 
when  she  went  to  her  Saviour,  He  always 
seemed  near  and  ready  to  help  her,  and 
that  she  trusted  in  Him  for  strength  to 
do  right. 

In  August  there  was  to  be  a  camp- 
meeting  in  the  woods  of  Southerly,  and 
this  became  Tilda's  final  hope  for  Ei- 
rene's  salvation. 

"  I'll  take  her  there,"  she  said,  with 
an  energetic  jerk,  as  if  the-taking  would 
involve  corporeal  lifting,  and  Eirene  was 
to  be  carried  in  her  arms  to  the  camp 
ground.  "  I'll  take  her  there,  and  when 
the  Spirit  of  the  Lord  comes  down,  as 
it  did  at  Pentecost,  it  will  pierce  her 
through  and  through.  Then  she'll  see 
her  sinfulness,  but  not  before.  Such 
blindness  !  such  blindness  !  But  when 
she  is  a  Christian,  she  will  be  a  bright 
and  shining  light.  I  haven't  a  doubt 
but  she'll  receive  the  blessing  of  sancti- 
fication." 

PAUL'S  SUMMER. 

Paul  had  not  been  at  home  all  summer. 
He  had  a  strong  will,  and  it  had  kept 
him  away  from  Busyville.  During  the 
winter  the  desire  to  go  there,  the  desire 
to  see  Eirene,  had  often  ru*hed  through 
his  heart.  Head  and  heart  wrestled  to 
gether,  but  in  the  end  the  head  li.-id 
always  been  victorious.  More  than  once 
he  sat  over  his  meerschaum  gazing  into 
the  fire  till  he  saw  the  face  that  he  sought 
rise  and  look  forth  on  him  through  its 
heart  of  flame.  Once  as  he  beheld  it 
thus,  he  turned  aside  to  his  table,  took 
his  pen  and  began  a  letter  to  Eirene; 
more,  he  wrote  on  to  the  end,  a  long 


letter  into  which  he  poured  his  heart  at 
flood-tide.  He  told  her  how  she  seemed 
to  him  in  her  innocence  ;  how  different 
from  the  yonng  ladies  of  the  world ;  how 
her  face  and  her  presence  rested  and 
satisfied  him ;  how  it  made  him  happier 
and  better,  indeed  how  it  made  all  good 
ness  eeem  possible  even  to  him ! 

For  he  was  not  good,  he  told  her;  he 
was  guilty  of  sins  of  which  she  had  no 
comprehension  ;  but  that  the  look  in  her 
eyes  made  the  pleasures  of  the  world 
hateful  to  his  very  thought. 

He  needed  the  influence  of  such  a 
nature  in  his  life.  She  could  do  every 
thing  for  him,  if  she  only  would ;  if  she 
would  only  care  for  him,  if  she  would 
only  care  for  him  a  little  ;  if  she  would 
think  of  him,  and  write  to  him  sometime-. 
And  he  hoped  that  he  could  do  some 
thing  for  her — it  pained  him  to  think  that 
she,  a  young  and  delicate  girl,  was  strug 
gling  against  such  hard  odds  for  an  edu 
cation,  while  he,  a  young  man,  had  oppor 
tunities  given  him  which  he  did  not 
improve.  He  could  assist  her  a  little  at 
least  in  the  way  of  books.  Would  she 
let  him  ?  Would  she  let  him  be  her 
brother  ?  Would  she  be  to  him  a  sister? 
Paul  had  never  written  anything  in  his 
life  so  purely  noble  and  sincere  as  this 
letter,  till  he  came  to  the  last  sentence. 
"Sister!  brother!  Pshaw!  A  pretty 
brother  I'd  make  to  Tier  !  I  dare  say  she 
could  be  my  sister,  but  I  never  could  be 
her  brother.  To  her  I  can  only  be  a 
lover  or  nothing.  I  cannot  be  her  lover. 
Then  I  will  he  nothing.  But  I  won't  send 
her  any  such  lying  humbug."  And  in  his 
self  disgust  Paul  tossed  into  the  fire  the 
letter  in  which  he  had  put  the  very  best 
of  his  heart. 

Instead  of  the  letter  he  sent  her  a 
magazine  !  Paul's  shrewd,  worldly  head 
domineered  over  his  passionate  and  im 
portunate  heart.  Thus  he  carried  in 
himself  two  conflicting  and  keenly-de 
fined  natures  which  were  constantly  war 
ring  with  each  other.  Like  all  men  of 
intellect  eager  for  power  and  distinction 
in  the  world,  his  plan  of  life  was  dis 
tinctly  marked  out,  and  in  the  end  he 
meant  to  fulfil  it  at  any  cost  to  mere 
affection.  In  his  cool  moments  he  was 


52 


EIBENK : 


quite  as  ambitious  for  himself  as  his 
mother  was  for  him. 

But  she  knew  him  well  when  she  said : 
"  It  will  be  hard  for  you  to  be  true  to 
your  position  till  you  are  older." 

Now  life  was  eager  within  him.  His 
youth  w;is  in  the  way.  It  was  the  youth 
in  his  heart  which  cried  out  and  would 
not  be  defrauded  of  its  right. 

But  as  the  winter  wore  on,  Paul  found 
it  easier  to  submit  to  what  he  called  his 
"  reason,"  and  he  began  once  more  with 
a  will  to  bend  all  his  desires  to  his  old 
plan  of  life. 

Time  dropped  its  barrier  between  him 
and  the  fair  presence  which  for  a  single 
month  had  so  pervaded  and  possessed 
him.  The  sweet  face  began  to  seem 
picture-like,  something  to  remember  and 
half  worship  as  he  did  the  Evangeline 
before  him. 

As  it  grew  more  dreamlike,  he  found 
it  easier  to  reason  over  his  feelings,  and 
began  to  console  himself  with  the  con-  . 
elusion  that  he  had  not  been  such  a 
foolish  fellow  after  all. 

"  I  never  saw  a  face  that  movi'd  me 
like  that,  and  I  don't  believe  that  I  ever 
shall  another,"  he  would  say  to  himself. 
"I  came  very  near  falling  in  love.  But 
I  left  Busyville  just  in  season.  I  knew 
enough  to  know  my  danger,  and  I  have 
had  sense  enough  to  keep  out  of  it.  I 
shan't  go  home  again  till  I  am  sure  I  can 
look  at  that  face  without  a  single  flutter, 
and  criticise  it  as  coolly  as  any  other." 

Paul  found  Marlboro  Hill  a  valuable 
assistant  to  his  sensible  resolutions.  He 
accepted  all  Dick's  invitations,  and  spent 
his  Saturdays  and  Sundays  there.  Like 
most  men,  he  was  powerfully  control 
led  by  his  senses.  What  he  saw  and 
felt  this  moment  moved  him  more  than 
what  he  remembered. 

We  have  no  gauge  which  can  measure 
the  power  of  persjnal  contact, — the  in 
fluence  of  voice  and  eye,  of  look  and 
touch,  laying  siege  to  the  soul  through 
the  outworks  of  the  senses. 

We  do  not  half  realize  how  potent  is 
the  subtle  atmosphere  of  presence 
sheathing  every  human  body,  repelling 
or  attracting  with  inevitable  magnetism. 

Rare  as  wonderful  is  the  personality 


of  that  being  who  can  so  pervade 
another, — that  neither  time  nor  absence 
nor  rivals,  the  crudest  foes  to  love,  can 
dethrone  or  banish  it  from  the  heart 
into  which  it  has  entered  and  in  which 
it  is  enshrined.  Not  more  than  one  man 
in  a  thousand  is  strong  enough  to  be 
perfectly  loyal  in  thought-  and  in  deed  to 
the  absent  love,  when  beguiled  by  the 
looks  and  words  and  tones  of  a  charmer 
whose  living  presence  makes  the  absent 
one  pale  into  a  memory  and  a  dream. 

Paul  would  have  been  a  very  diiFerent 
Paul  from  what  he  was  had  he  proved 
to  be  an  exception  to  his  sex.  Besides, 
bound  by  no  vow,  feeling  himself  sub 
ject  to  no  law  but  that  of  his  own  nature, 
he  threw  himself  with  nil  the  force  of 
his  will  into  that  side  of  the  balance 
which  held  the  whole  of  his  interest,  if 
only  a  part  of  his  feeling. 

Feeling  is  usually  a  rebel  against  mere 
expediency.  And  Miss  Isabella  Pres- 
cott's  cause  would  have  prospered  more 
surely  if  Paul's  practical  head  hud  not 
been  constantly  reiterating  to  his  rebel 
lious  heart :  "  You  must  fall  in  love 
with  Bell  Prescott,  because  it  is  for  your 
interest  to  do  so."  As  he  had  made  up 
his  mind  to  obey  his  head,  he  did  it  as 
far  as  he  was  able,  and  he  would  not 
have  been  Paul  if  he  had  found  that 
obedience  wholly  disagreeable. 

To  a  young  man  of  his  ta-tos  it  was  by 
no  means  an  irksome  task  to  be  the 
escort  of  a  belle,  a  beauty,  and  an  heiress. 
It  pleased  his  vanity  to  roll  about  the 
country  with  her  in  a  showy  carriage ; 
or  on  a  mettled  thoroughbred  to  canter 
through  the  streets  of  Cambridge  by  her 
side ;  or  to  promenade  with  her  down 
Beacon  street,  and  thus  send  a  pang 
through  Helena  Maynard's  heart  as  she 
beheld  them  seemingly  absorbed  in  each 
other,  from  the  windows  of  her  stately 
home.  Paul  attended  Miss  Prescott  to 
church,  he  waited  upon  her  to  the  opera. 
He  danced  with  her,  snng  with  her,  in 
fine  flirted  with  her,  and  the  world 
looking  on  said  that  it  was  a  high  game 
that  either  one,  or  both  were  playing, 
and  wondered  which  would  win. 

And  yet  every  week  Paul  spent  one 
evening  at  least  with  Helena  Maynard, 


A  WOMAN'S  EIGHT. 


53 


in  which  he  neither  waltzed  nor  sung — 
but  sat  in  cosy  tete-a-tete  in  a  classical 
and  luxuriant  library,  talking  metaphys 
ics  and  ethics,  ethnology,  psychology, 
theology,  art,  poetry,  and  love,  with  one 
of  the  most  noted  girls  in  Boston.  Not 
a  week  but  one  or  more  of  her  exqui 
sitely  scented  missives,  witty,  sentimen 
tal,  dashing,  to  the  verge  of  coarseness, 
free  beyond  the  conventional  limit  of 
maidenly  freedom,  yet  certainly  clever, 
and  unmistakably  tender,  found  its  way 
to  the  law  student's  parlor  in  Cambridge. 
Paul  would  read  it  over  more  than  once, 
and  say  thoughtfully :  "  With  all  her 
conquests,  and  all  her  offers,  she  un 
doubtedly  loves  me.  And  she  writes  the 
cleverest  letters  that  I  ever  read — they 
are  really  company."  And  in  propor 
tion  to  his  estimate  of  their  cleverness, 
he  felt  flattered  by  their  homage.  And 
what  kind  of  letters  did  he  write  in 
reply  ?  Not  love  letters  in  the  openly 
declared  sense,  and  yet  love  letters  still, 
in  all  subtle  and  undefined  expression. 

No  single  sentence  committed  him  to 
any  positive  declaration,  yet  every  word 
was  full  of  implied  interest,  sympathy, 
and  tenderness  toward  her,  and  all  that 
concerned  her  happiness.  Helena  made 
him  her  confidant.  She  uncovered  to 
his  vision  her  inner  life  ; — told  him  of 
her  many  lovers,  of  the  numerous  offers 
of  marriage  made  her  ; — of  her  refusals 
of  every  one; — revelations  not  at  all  un 
pleasant  to  a  vain  young  man,  when  the 
inevitable  conslusion  was,  that  these  re 
fusals  were  all  made  by  a  heart  pre 
occupied  with  his  own  absorbing  self.  It 
pleased  him  to  call  himself  and  Helena 
"  friends."  He  believed  in  men  cherish 
ing  female  friends  d  la  Recamier,  and 
thought  it  of  immense  value  to  his  own 
development  t »  be  the  intimate  compan 
ion  of  a  gifted  woman  of  society.  Besides 
it  afforded  him  a  flattering  estimate  of 
his  own  superior  strength  and  wisdom, 
to  be  able  to  accept  this  unequivocal 
homage  unveiled  even  of  maidenly  re 
serve,  and  yet  to  be  strong  to  inform  her, 
in  return,  that  his  heart  was  not  his  own 
— tliat  he  was  her  true  and  devoted  friend, 
but  could  be  no  more.  And  yet  while  mak 
ing  this  avowal  in  words  in  a  thousand 


ways  more  expressive  than  all  language, 
he  made  her  feel  constantly,  after  all, 
that  if  less  than  a  lover,  he  was  more 
than  a  friend. 

He  would  say  to  himself:  "I  shall 
never  love  Helena  Maynard.  Her  nature 
is  too  exaggerated,  too  over-wrought. 
She  is  too  full  of  passionate  unrest,  it 
would  worry  me  to  death  to  live  with 
it;  but  I  admire  her,  and  I  am  sot  going 
to  give  up  such  letters." 

Poor  Paul !  he  did  not  know  that  it 
was  almost  impossible  for  him  to  give 
up  any  thing  which  in  the  slightest  de 
gree  ministered  to  his  own  pleasure. 
These  letters  were  a  gratification  to  him 
self.  He  did  not  think  to  inquire  how 
far  they  might  grow  to  compromise  the 
peace  of  their  writer. 

Still,  his  intercourse  with  Helena  May 
nard  was  only  the  side  play  of  life,  its 
positive  entertainment  was  derived  from 
the  society  of  Bell  Prescott.  To  him,  in 
this,  there  was  just  enough  of  the  play 
of  passion  to  make  it  pleasant.  There 
was  no  deep  yearning  of  heart,  no  sym 
pathy  of  spirit,  no  holy  love,  but  there 
was  personal  attraction  hovering  in  look 
and  gesture  ;  fluttering  in  the  touch  of 
her  dainty  hands,  and  in  the  twinkling 
of  her  dancing  feet. 

She  played  about  him  perpetually,  and 
fascinated  his  senses.  If  he  sat  by  her 
side  he  wanted  to  touch  the  jewel  quiv 
ering  in  her  ear,  or  to  toy  with  the  gold 
en  chains  fettering  her  delicate  wrists: 
or  he  felt  an  insane  desire  to  catch  some 
tiny  feather  of  a  curl  floating  out  from 
all  the  rest.  The  pretty  hand  so  playfully 
yet  coyly  given,  so  quickly  withdrawn, 
he  liked  to  take  it  in  his,  and  hold  it  an 
instant  longer  than  necessary.  He  liked 
to  dance  with  this  airy  sylph — for  she 
swayed  him  with  her  movement,  now 
dreamy  and  languid,  now  sprightly  and 
gay.  And  for  the  time  being  she  would 
fascinate  him  with  her  eyes, — one  mo 
ment  languishing  with  tenderness,  the 
next  sparkling  and  teazing  with  merri 
ment.  Then  she  was  so  full  of  pretty 
pranks  and  whims  which  are  as  charm 
ing  in  a  youthful  beauty  as  they  are 
tedious  and  irritating  in  a  plain,  elderly 
woman. 


EIBEXE : 


One  moment  she  would  say  fche  "  could  the  thought  which  always  came  at  last, 
waltz  forever,"  and  the  next  would  de-  and  which  was  a  longing  also — that  the 
clare  she  was  "  so  tired  she  could  not  pictured  eyes  could  only  look  on  him 
take  another  step.  Mr.  Mallane  must  once  more  from  the  living  face. 

take   her  fan  and    bouquet,  her  vinai- -*T3ell  Prescott    is  the  gayest  of  all 

grette  and  her  mouchoir."     But  as  soon     company,"   he   would   say   to   himself; 


as  she  saw  him  fairly  laden  she  wanted 
them  all  back  again. 

When  Dick  remonstrated,  and  told  her 
that  she  was  "silly,"  as  he  always  did 
when  he  was  about,  she  would  look  at 
him  with  an  audacious  twinkle  in  her 
cunning  eyes,  and  a  vexed  pout  on  her 
childish  mouth,  and  tell  him  that  she 
"liked  to  be  silly,  it  was  vastly  pleasant- 
er  than  being  wise,"  which  was  very 
true  in  her  case.  She  was  too  perfect  an 
artiste  in  her  art  not  to  know  precisely 
the  effect  of  all  these  foolish,  yet  bewitch 
ing  ways.  She  had  practised  those 
charming  gestures  and  made  those 
pretty  mouths  too  long  not  to  know  ex 
actly  their  influence  upon  susceptible 
young  men. 

Her  prophecy  was  already  fulfilled — 
Paul  no  longer  sat  by  her  side  unmoved 
as  his  "  grandfather  carved  in  alabaster." 
Indeed,  her  moods  were  so  full  of  con- 
tra-t,  such  a  perpetual  surprise,  that  he 
was  in  a  half-astonished,  half-admiring, 
and  wholly-bewildered  state  whenever 
he  was  in  her  presence.  But  her  empire 
did  not  extend  beyond  her  personal  at 
mosphere.  Fairly  outside  of  that,  Paul 
was  alone  with  himself,  and  then  it  was 
not  of  her  that  he  thought.  Or  if  he 
did,  strange  to  say,  he  felt  no  longing  to 
return  to  her  side — and  it  was  with  a 
feeling  of  vexation  toward  himself,  that 
while  he  was  conscious  that  she  fasci 
nated  him,  he  was  equally  conscious  that 
he  did  not  love  this  girl. 

He  would  sit  and  wonder  if  Eirene 
had  translated  Telemaque  yet,  or  if  she 
had  read  all  of  Bossuet's  sermons;  or  if 
she  liked  the  Magazine,  or  the  copy  of 
Beranger's  songs  which  he  had  sent  her. 

He  would  think  of  her  as  he  saw  her 
oncfe  standing  by  the  window,  at  the  end 
of  the  long  shop,  the  sunshine  falling  on 
her  hair  touching  its  brown  with  gold. 

He  wondered  if  she  ever  fancied  where 
her  pictures  and  books  came  from,  and 
if  she  ever  thought  of  him !  Then  came 


"  and  her  ways  are  fascinating,  very,  and 
when  I  am  with  her  I  don't  know 
whether  I  am  in  love  with  her  or  not ; 
but  as  soon  as  I  get  away  I  know  that 
I  am  not.  It  looks  cunning  in  a  girl  of 
her  features — but  I  don't  think  that  I 
should  fancy  having  my  wife  winking 
at  me  out  of  the  corner  of  one  eye,  or 
making  mouths  at  me — as  she  does. 
It's  odd,  but  what  one  thinks  very 
charming  in  a  coquette,  and  a  young 
lady  of  fashion,  is  not  at  all  what  one 
would  fancy  in  one's  wife !  These  are 
the  eyes  to  spend  one's  life  with !  "  he 
said,  looking  down  into  the  face  of  his 
Evangeline — eyes  that  would  never  up 
braid  except  with  their  tenderness,  that 
would  never  mock  save  with  their  puri 
ty.  "  These  are  the  only  eyes  to  save  m° 
from  the  world  and  the  devil.  If  I  could 
look  down  into  them  and  see  them  full 
of  love  for  me,  the  eyes  of  my  wife  !  and 
see  them  looking  up  at  me  again,  some 
day,  from  the  eyes  of  my  children — 
that  would  be  joy  enough !  How  I  could 
love  that -girl!  What  a  cursed  fate! 
What  a  cursed  nature  that  will  not  be 
satisfied  with  li'ss  than  all !  "  J*"^ 

When  he  reached  this  climax  Paul 
usually  snatched  Blackstone  and  went 
to  studying  with  all  his  might;  or  if  he 
could,  he  did  what  was  better  still  for 
self-forgetfulness,  he  went  to*  sleep,  and 
in  a  short  time  found  himself  in  his 
dreams  perfectly  happy  living  like  a  king 
at  Marlboro  Hill;  but,  strange  to  say,  the 
queen  who  shared  all  fortune  and  b>  auty 
with  him  was  not  Bell  Prescott,  but  a 
shop-girl  named  Eirene  Vale. 

Bell  Prescott  was  perfectly  certain 
that  slie  had  made  groat  advances  in  his 
favor  since  Paul's  first  visit  to  Marlboro 
Hill— indeed  that  she  had  gained  a  posi 
tive  power  over  him  ;  still  she  was  equal 
ly  certain  that  it  was  only  a  partial  pow 
er,  and  therefore  she  by  no  means  felt 
satisfied.  Notwithstanding  she  made  her 
presence  so  engrossing,  there  were  mo- 


A  WOMAN'S  RIGHT. 


55 


ments,  perhaps  when  she  was  most  bril 
liant  and  fantastical,  when  an  absent 
look  would  creep  over  his  face  as  if  he 
saw  something  far  distant,  It  is  true  at 
these  times  another  face  did  rise  before 
his  vision  by  sheer  force  of  contrast  to 
the  one  before  him. 

This  look  never  escaped  Bell's  quick 
eyes,  and  she  would  inwardly  say: 
"There!  he  is  thinking  of  that  shop 
girl  !  It  seems  very  hard  to  get  her  out 
of  his  head.  If  I  can't,  nobody  can." 
Sometimes  while  toying  with  her  jewels 
he  would  drop  them  suddenly,  with  a 
sense  of  self-disgust,  and  a  look  of  posi 
tive  weariness.  He  was  playing  with 
the  charms  in  her  chatelaine  one  day, 
when  he  let  them  fall  listlessly,  and  this 
look  so  unwelcome  to  his  companion 
stole  over  his  face. 

"  Who  are  you  thinking  of,  Sir 
Knight?  "  she  asked  in  her  softest  voice. 
This  unexpected  question,  the  first  of  the 
kind  which  she  had  ever  put  to  him, 
brought  the  color  into  Paul's  cheek. 

"  Ah  !  "  she  said  archly,  "  you  are 
thinking  of  some  Busyville  beauty.  It's 
nobody  very  near  I  know,  for  your 
thoughts  seem  a  long  way  off.  Come, 
Sir  Knight,  tell  me.  Have  you  a  little 
loveress? " 

"  No  indeed,  ma  belle.  I  am  solitary, 
with  no  lady  to  love  me.  But  I  was 
thinking  of  a  lovely  girl,  one  of  the  love 
liest  that  I  ever  saw,  and  she  does  live 
in  Busyville." 

"  Indeed!  "  was  the  involuntary  ex 
clamation,  and  this  time  the  pouting  of 
the  little  mouth  was  real  not  affected. 
Miss  Bella  was  not  quite  prepared  for  this 
unanticipated  confession.  The  vexation 
of  lip  and  tone  were  not  to  be  mistaken, 
and  for  an  instant  Paul  experienced  the 
keen  masculine  delight  of  making  one 
woman  miserable  by  praising  another. 

His  triumph  was  only  momentary. 
Miss  Prescott  was  quite  as  well  aware  of 
his  weakness  as  he  was  of  hers,  and  be 
fore  Paul  could  choose  any  new  adjective 
of  praise  for  the  unknown  rival  with 
which  to  torment  her,  she  had  recovered 
all  her  wonted  art  and  exclaimed  : 

"Oh,  I  know  who  it  is!  Dick  told  me 
all  about  her.  He  said  you  were  in  love 


with  her;  she  works  in  your  father's 
shop." 

This  was  extremely  mortifying,  and 
would  have  seemed  almost  rude  if  it  had 
not  been  uttered  in  the  most  innocent 
and  charming  tone  in  the  worM. 

Paul  never  mentioned  the  '•  shop  "  at 
Marlboro  Hill.  The  Prescotts  had  never 
been  "in  business;  "  and  Paul  himself 
felt  a  repugnance  to  trade  which  was 
rather  at  variance  with  his  New  England 
origin.  When  he  heard  his  companions 
boasting  of  their  pedigree,  he  often 
wished  that  he  could  refer  to  a  long  line 
of  illustrious  ancestors  whose  white 
hands  had  never  been  soiled  by  coming  in 
contact  with  gross  products  ;  and  whose 
lofty  intellects  had  never  come  down  to 
accounts  in  stock,  but  who  had  lived  and 
died  in  the  practice  of  high  and  wise  pur 
suits,  or  in  the  serene  atmosphere  of  af 
fluence  and  leisure. 

It  was  but  a  partial  consolation  for  him 
to  remember  that  the  Bards  had  always 
been  freeholders  and  rich,  while  he  could 
not  forget  that  the  grandfather  whose 
name  he  bore,  had  been  only  an  honest, 
industrious  carpenter,  and  that  his  fa 
ther's  wealth  had  all  been  acquired  in 
the  shops  where  in  earlier  days  that 
same  father  had  worked  with  his  own 
hands.  This  false  pride,  ever  alert,  stung 
him  once  more  at  Bella  Prescott's  words; 
but  he  was  too  haughty  to  betray  his 
weakness  for  more  than  an  instant,  and 
thus  said  very  deliberately :  "  Yes,  she 
does  work  in  one  of  my  father's  shops. 
But  she  is  very  superior  to  her  condition. 
Indeed,  I  have  reason  to  think  that  she 
comes  from  an  old  and  educated  family 
who  have  become  reduced,"  and  his 
mind  referred  to  the  little  antique  testa 
ment  with  its  Latin  phrase.  "  But, 
Miss  Prescott,  personally  she  is  nothing 
in  the  world  to  me,  and  never  will  be. 
Her  face  comes  back  to  me  like  pictures 
that  I  have  seen  and  admired,  and  as  it 
has  a  peculiar  kind  of  loveliness  I  like  to 
look  at  it,  that  is  all.  She  makes  a  pret 
ty  picture,  and  yet  she  has  not  the  style 
of  beauty  that  I  most  admire  in  a  wom 
an,  you  m.'iy  know,  for  her  eyes  are 
brown."  He  said  this  with  a  look  of  un 
mistakable  meaning  fixed  upon  her  eyes. 


50 


EIRENB : 


•'  Are  you  sure  that  is  all  ? " 

At  the  very  beginning  of  this  question 
the  gay  voice  melted  into  a  tender  vibra 
tion  which  must  have  been  irresistible, 
for  Paul  answered  quickly  :  "  Yes,  I  am 
sure.  Don't  you  think  that  I  am  old 
enough  to  know  my  own  mind  ?  Brown 
eyes  may  be  lovely  in  a  picture,  but  in 
the  living  woman  give  me  the  blue." 


A  moment  afterward  Paul  despised 
himself  for  a  liar,  and  Miss  Prescott,  feel 
ing  the  emanation  of  his  discontent, 
mused  silently  over  his  words.  "I  don't 
believe  it!  No  man  would  ever  spend 
so  much  time  in  growing  absent-minded 
over  a  picture.  He  has  told  me  a  fib, 
and  dotes  on  brown  eyes,  and  has  told 
her  so." 


VI. 


THE    PLEASim*   MONTH. 


AFTER  Commencement  Dick  made  up 
a  gay  party  for  his  new  yacht  the  Nau 
tilus,  which  sailed  from  Boston  for  an 
island  off  the  coast  of  Maine. 

The  Cuban  heiress  went,  accompanied 
by  her  brother  Senor  Oredo,  and  Helena 
Maynard  went  also  as  one  of  the  brides 
maids  of  a  bridal  party.  Miss  Bella 
Prescott's  nominal  protector  was  her 
brother  Dick,  but  her  escort  of  course 
was  Mr.  Paul  Mallane. 

The  real  history  of  that  pleasure  month 
off  the  coast  of  Maine  cannot  be  written 
in  words  ;  for  with  some  of  its  actors  it 
was  all  lived  in  heart-throbs,  in  thrills  of 
joy,  in  deep  stabs  of  pain,  and  while  these 
must  be  lived  they  can  never  be  told. 
After  a  sunny  voyage  the  Nautilus  rested 
in  a  quiet  cove,  and  its  festal  party  re 
treated  to  a  summer  cottnge  on  the  inland 
open  for  guests.  But  this  was  only  a 
partial  retreat,  where  they  slept  and 
sometimes  eat, — their  holiday  was  spent 
in  the  open  air. 

They  fished  and  boated,  rode  and 
drove;  picnicked,  loitered,  and  rested, 
after  the  fashion  of  all  pleasure  parties ; 
and  in  the  sultry  July  nights  the  -gentle 
men  swung  hammocks  from  the  trees 
and  went  to  deep  under  the  stars.  The 
island  was  full  of  lovely  and  lonely 
haunts,  where  Nature  wrought  her  deli 
cious  alcheinies  alone,  and  only  her  voices 
were  heard. 

Her  crickets  piped  in  the  long  waving 
grasses;  her  birds  twittered  to  each 
other  from  their  solitary  boughs;  her 
waves  ran  up  find  talked  wiih  the  rust 
ling  si-dge  and  pearly  pebbles  on  the 
shore,  and  there  were  none  to  molest  or 
to  make  them  afraid.  What  wonder 


that  beauty  and  youth,  that  love  and  ro 
mance,  discovered  these  unaccustomed 
haunts,  and  made  them  their  own! 

What  roads  were  those  running 
through  cool  forests,  bordered  by  broad 
beds  of  fragrant  fern,  walled  and  fes 
tooned  with  wild  vines,  roofed  with' 
panoplies  of  interlacing  leaves  through 
which  the  midsummt- r  sunshine  twinkled 
in  stars !  And  what  paths  were  those 
winding  through  groves  of  cedar  and 
spruce  and  pine,  ending  at  last  on  the 
sheltered  beach, where  you  might  sit  and 
rest  while  the  waves  of  the  ocean  played 
with  the  shells  at  your  feet.  I  must 
believe  that  God  meant  such  a  spot  as 
this  for  love  and  rest,  and  for  that  serene, 
content  which  is  the  fulness  of  peace. 
But  since  sin  has  come  into  His  world, 
wherever  His  creatures  go,  gues  also  dis 
content,  unrest,  and  that  mighty  yearn 
ing  of  the  heart  for  what  is  not,  and  for 
what  cannot  be,  which  so  often  destroys 
the  satisfaction  of  all  present  possession. 

Thus,  excepting  the  newly  -  married 
pair,  who  were  thoroughly  in  love  and 
wholly  absorbed  in  each  other's  society, 
it  is  doubtful  if  in  all  Dick  Prescott's  gay 
party  there  was  one  who  at  heart  was 
perfectly  satisfied  and  happy.  Where 
half  a  dozen  human  beings  meet  and 
mingle,  and  the  give-and-take  of  society 
is  going  on,  it  is  curious  and  often  sad  to 
watch  the  subtle  forces  which  move 
them  ;  the  secret  passions  which  draw 
them  together,  and  drive  them  asunder ; 
which  make  them  love  and  hate,  mis 
judge  and  wrong,  bless  and  destroy  each 
other  I 

Dick  and  his  Cuban  hi-iress  were 
probably  the  best  contented  of  the  com 
pany.  For  he  had  Delora  entirely  to 


A  WOMAN'S  RIGHT. 


57 


bin-self,  ai.d  although  she  did  not  care 
a  fig  for  him,  she  was  too  indolent  to 
trouble  herself  about  any  body  else.  In 
a  sort  of  a  sleepy  way  she  admired  the 
Seilor  Malane,  but  it  did  not  annoy  her 
at  all  to  see  him  constantly  by  the  side 
of  another,  while  her  own  cavalier  ser- 
tante  was  so  exclusively  devoted,  that  he 
anticipated  all  her  desires,  and  saved  her 
the  exertion  of  thinking  at  all.  Thus 
she  had  nothing  to  do  but  to  enjoy ;  to 
drink  in  all  light  and  warmth,  all  odor 
and  sound  through  her  luxurious  senses. 
Her  most  positive  emotion  was  manifest 
ed  when  the  wind  swept  cool  from  the 
sea  ;  then  she  would  shudder  in  her  thick 
wrappings  of  India  shawls,  and  wonder 
"  how  people  could  live  so  near  the 
North  pole."  Her  brother,  the  Sefior, 
was  not  quite  as  content.  This  dark 
Don  had  conceived  a  positive  admiration 
for  the  white  beauty  of  the  Massachu 
setts  blonde ;  her  vivacity  was  in  pleas 
ant  contrast  to  his  own  heaviness,  and 
charmed  him  exceedingly. 

Paul,  who  was  in  no  way  oblivious  to 
the  Cuban's  admiration,  redoubled  his 
own  attentions  through  sheer  rivalry; 
otherwise  he  would  certainly  have  con 
ferred  at  leust  half  of  them  upon  Helena 
Maynard. 

But  as  he  graphically  expressed  it, 
"  with  that  confounded  Spaniard  always 
about,"  Miss  Prescott  received  his  almost 
exclusive  devotion,  and  Helena  Maynard 
and  Senor  Ovedo  were  left  to  make  the 
most  of  each  other.  The  latter  was  not 
devoid  of  a  latent  admiration  for  her 
Cleopatra-like  beauty,  which  might  have 
been  greatly  enhanced  if  she  had  taken 
the  slightest  pains  to  please  him,  which 
she  did  not  do.  Helena'  had  devoted 
years  to  flirting  and  was  tired  of  it,  and 
now  the  real  passion  in  her  heart  ad 
mitted  of  no  room  for  pastime. 

Besides,  the  Don  was  heavy  and  slow 
botli  in  thought  and  movement,  with  a 
positive  preponderance  of  the  senses  in 
his  organism ;  just  the  style  of  man 
which  she  did  not  admire.  Helena, 
though  a  belle,  was  also  a  Blue,  and  was 
much  vainer  of  her  intellect  than  of  her 
beauty.  Yet  the  mental  cleverness  on 
wlii(»li  she  prided  herself  was  that  por 


tion  of  her  being  to  which  Sefior  Ovedo 
was  perfectly  oblivious.  He  could  ap 
preciate  mirth  and  vivacity  like  Miss 
Prescott's  ;  but  real  intellectual  acumen 
in  a  woman  was  a  power  of  which  the 
Sefior  had  no  comprehension.  Thus 
the  finest  quality  of  a  Boston  belle 
was  all  lost  upon  the  dull  Don.  Miss 
Maynard  had  the  mortification  of  per 
ceiving  that  the  man  who  escorted  her, 
could  only  regard  her  as  a  fine  animal  t« 
admire  or  as  a  pretty  toy  to  entertain  him. 
Her  most  brilliant  repartees  quickened 
in  him  no  like  response  ;  the  little  glan 
cing  arrows  of  her  wit  flew  all  about  him 
— yet  he  did  not  seem  to  see,  much  less 
to  feel  them,  although  it  was  very  evi 
dent  that  he  saw  with  perfect  distinct 
ness  the  saucy  curls  dancing  under  Bella 
Prescott's  little  hat.  It  was  very  aggra 
vating  to  be  doomed  to  such  a  compan 
ion,  even  if  he  were  a  rich  and  high-born 
Don — while  she  saw  constantly  before 
her  eyes,  wasting  his  brightness  on  "that 
silly  Bell  Prescott,"  a  young  man  whom 
she  admired,  yes,  much  more  than  ad 
mired,  although  he  advanced  many  law 
less  ideas,  and  did  not  believe  in  the 
New  Testament  miracles. 

The  charming  discussions  which  she 
had  anticipated  with  him,  which  her 
imagination  had  presented  to  her  so 
many  times  with  all  the  poetic  acces 
sories  of  summer  woods,  and  of  the  sigh 
ing  sea  blending  with  gentle  tones  and 
tender  looks  and  soft  silences,  did  not 
take  place.  In  these  discussions  the 
young  lady  had  intended  to  have  taken 
very  orthodox  grounds  against  Paul's 
Spinozo.  Paul  was  all  the  more  inter 
esting  to  her  for  his  religious  unbelief. 
It  was  very  becoming  to  a  clever  young 
man  to  be  sceptical ;  it  indicated  an  orig 
inal  and  investigating  mind  ;  but  she  as 
a  woman  must  of  course  believe  in  the 
Bible.  Besides  being  safer,  it  was  much 
pleasanter  to  do  so ;  it  enabled  her  to  be 
in  one  sense  a  missionary  and  a  defender 
of  the  Faith  to  this  erring  youth,  who 
was  audacious  enough  to  question  Moses 
and  the  prophets.  But  contrary  to 
all  her  expectations  Helena  found  very 
slight  opportunity  for  setting  Paul  right 
in  the  Christian  faith.  Purposely  he 


58 


EIEENK: 


seemed  to  keep  himself  remote  from  her. 
Yet  not  a  day  passed  but  she  witnessed 
some  act  of  his  which  seemed  more  than 
she  could  hear.  He  and  Miss  Bella  had 
a  fashion  of  separating  from  the  remain 
der  of  the  party,  and  of  wandering  away 
by  themselves.  Often,  some  unexpected 
turn  in  the  road  brought  the  Don  and 
Helena  into  the  presence  of  this  devoted 
pair,  and  a  pang  like  a  stab  would  strike 
through  her  heart  when  she  beheld  the 
fair  hair  of  her  rival  crowned  with 
flowers  by  the  hands  which  she  loved. 
Or  when  she  saw  the  eyes  whose  mean 
ing  looks  were  so  dear  to  her,  turned 
upon  the  trivial  face  before  her  in  appar 
ent  unconsciousness  of  her  presence, 
something  very  like  hate  swelled  in  her 
breast  toward  the  aggravating  creature 
who  had  come  between  her  and  her  su 
preme  joy.  How  keenly  she  felt  this 
hate  one  day  when  Bell  called  out  in  a 
tone  of  tantalizing  sweetness :  "  O 
Helena !  see  these  lovely  wild  flowers 
which  Mr.  Mollane  has  gathered  forme! 
Do  take  enough  for  a  bouquet !" 

Any  casual  observer  seeing  Don  Ovedo 
and  Helena  Maynard  cantering  side  by 
side  through  those  wooded  roads  would 
have  thought  them  a  perfectly  stylish  and 
satisfied  pair.  The  light  laugh  that  came 
back  on  the  breeze,  which  each  heard 
so  distinctly,  seemed  in  no  way  to  break 
the  tenor  of  their  talk  or  to  arrest  their 
attention.  Yet  each  heard  it  with  a  start 
ling  distinctness;  and  as  they  listened, 
each  became  more  assiduously  polite  to 
the  other,  from  the  very  consciousness 
one  felt  that  he  longed  to  go  in  search 
of  that  gay  laugh,  indeed  that  he  was  de 
frauded  by  its  being  bestowed  upon  an 
other  ;  and  the  consciousness  the  other 
felt  that  she  hated  it,  with  an  almost  ir 
resistible  impulse  to  rush  on  and  take 
the  place  which  she  felt  was  her  own 
beside  Paul  Mallane.  Yet  to  a  super 
ficial  glance  they  seemed  perfectly  con 
tented,  and  were  probably  as  well  satis 
fied  with  each  other  as  most  people  are 
who  get  together  in  this  world. 

At  last  there  came  to  Helena  a  mo 
ment  of  triumph  to  set  against  her  long 
days  of  waiting  and  disappointment. 
One  evening,  tho  last  before  they  went 


away,  Paul  asked  her  to  w;ilk  on  the 
beach.  They  walked  slowly  down  the 
path  winding  through  the  fir-balsam*. 
and  Miss  Prescott,  sitting  <>n  th<>  veran 
da,  watched  them  as  they  went  with  no 
slight  vexation  of  heart.  Seflor  Ovedo 
was  by  her  side,  and  his  heavy  counte 
nance  wore  an  unwonted  degree  of  illu 
mination  at  the  unusual  prospect  of  a 
tete-a-te*te  free  from  the  presence  of  the 
handsome  Paul. 

The  band  on  the  lawn  were  playing 
the  sweetest  airs  in  II  Trovatore,  yet  the 
pretty  blonde  neither  looked  on  her  de 
voted  cavalier,  nor  listened  to  her  favor 
ite  music.  There  was  no  mistaking  the 
pout  on  her  childish  lips,  nor  the  look  in 
her  twinkling  eyes,  fixed  for  once,  as  they 
followed  the  two  figures,  now  lost,  now 
visible  amid  the  trees,  as  they  went 
slowly  on  toward  the  sea. 

She  knew  it  was  said  in  their  party 
that  she  and  Paul  Mnllane  were  "a 
match,"  and  hitherto  appearances  had 
heen  very  positively  in  favor  of  such  a 
supposition.  This  young  lady  had  taken 
great  delight  in  making  the  most  of  these 
appearances,  yet  in  her  secret  heart  she 
by  no  means  felt  sure  of  her  conquest. 

With  all  Paul's  attentions  she  still  felt 
dissatisfied.  She  knew  that  he  had  one 
sort  of  admiration  for  her  ;  knew  there 
were  moments  when  she  almost  en 
thralled  him;  yet  what  came  of  it  all? 
She  never  felt  sure  of  her  power.  In 
the  very  midst  of  her  spells  did  he  not 
seem  to  slip  far  away,  as  if  thinking  of 
some  one  afar  off?  She  knew  that  he 
had  some  positive  motive  for  paying  her 
so  much  attention,  as  she  had  hers  in  re 
ceiving  it.  What  was  it  ?  He  was  her 
admirer  certainly,  but  not  her  jover. 
Bell  knew  this  certainly  also,  although 
she  would  not  have  owned  it  to  any  one 
else  in  the  world  but  herself. 

All  this  uncertainty  concerning  her 
own  relation  to  Paul  made  her  watchful 
and  even  suspicious  of  the  slightest  at 
tention  which  he  paid  to  another. 

"  What  is  there  between  him  and  He 
lena?  "  she  soliloquized,  as  her  eyes  still 
followed  the  receding  figures. 

"  There  is  something.  If  he  were  to 
deny  it  forever,  I  should  not  believe-him. 


A  WOMAN'S  RIGHT. 


59 


I  know  he  told  me  this  very  morning  that 
she  is  not  his  style.  But  what  of  that? 
Why  do  they  look  so  conscious  whenever 
they  meet,  especially  she  ?  What  a  look 
she  gave  me,  to  be  sure,  the  other  day 
when  I  asked  her  to  take  some  of  my 
flowers  I  I  knew  that  she  would  not 
touch  one,  unless  to  tear  it  to  pieces  the 
moment  she  was  out  of  sight.  For  an 
instant  she  looked  as  if  she  would  like  to 
tear  me.  It  was  delightful.  I  love  to 
tormeut  her.  Helena  has  queened  it 
long  enough.  It  is  time  that  she  should 
see  somebody  else  admired  besides  her 
self.  Why,  she  is  twenty-five!  I  hadn't 
long  dresses  on  when  she  came  so  near 
killing  Dukehart.  I  remember  Dick  tell 
ing  about  it,  when  I  was  home  at  vaca 
tion,  and  of  thinking  how  splendid  it 
must,  be  to  have  a  very  handsome  man 
frantically  in  love  with  one.  And  I  re 
member,  too.  how  long  it  seemed  before 
I  should  be  through  school  and  have  my 
chance.  Well,  it  has  come  at  last.  "And 
I  intend  to  make  the  most  of  appearances. 
I  will  have  so  much  compensation  for 
the  real  fact  that  my  knight  is  not  half 
so  much  in' love  with  me  as  he  seems. 
I  will  teaze  Helena  every  chance  I  get. 
I  will  have  that  consolation — no  very 
satisfactory  one,  if  I  am  to  see  them  very 
often  walking  in  this  style.  I'll  pay  you 
for  this,  man  prince,  some  day." 

"  Sefior,  will  you  walk  with  me  on  the 
beach?  See,  it  is  a  perfectly  lovely 
evening  !  "  she  asked  in  a  pleading  tone, 
as  if  a  walk  on  the  beach  had  been  the 
one  subject  of  her  desire  and  of  her  medi 
tation. 

Nothing  save  a  promise  to  become  his 
wife  could  have  madi.j  Sefior  Ovedo  so 
happy  as  this  unexpected  request.  It 
brightened  his  face  wonderfully,  and  all 
the  more  that  a  moment  since  he  had 
stood  beside  her  perfectly  disconsolate, 
because  he  could  think  of  nothing  what 
ever  t<>  say  or  do  that  would  make  the 
pouting  blonde  look  less  discontented. 

THE  FLIRTATION. 

By  this  time  Paul  and  Helena  were 
slowly  walking  up  and  down  the  beach. 
The  scarlet  fires  of  sunset  had  gone  out 
upon  the  sea,  and  lovely  twilight  pur 


ples  ran  along  the  waves,  that  plashed 
with  a  cool,  soughing  sound  against  the 
warm  pebbles  and  shells  on  the  shore. 

This  was  the  first  time  that  Helena 
had  been  alone  with  Paul  since  their 
coming  to  the  island,  and  they  were  to 
go  away  to-morrow  1  She  realized  it 
all,  as  she  looked  down  at  the  Nautilus 
still  resting  in  the  cove  below. 

She  fancied  already  that  there  was 
something  of  expectancy  and  of  eager 
ness  in  its  gay  streamers  as  they  rippled 
out  to  meet  the  home-sailing  breeze. 
Then  this  was  to  be  the  end  of  the  beau 
tiful  excursion  which  she  had  dreamed 
so  vainly  would  give  her  heart  not  only 
rest,  but  certain  joy  ! 

The  perfect  days  and  nights  had 
mocked  her  with  their  peace.  They 
were  burdened  with  their  own  content ; 
while  she,  she  was  unrest  itself,  in  her 
passionate  longing  for  the  love  which 
she  did  not  possess.  She  had  trifled 
with  plenty  of  hearts ;  she  had  even 
trampled  on  them,  not  maliciously,  but 
heedlessly,  even  cruelly,  because  she  did 
not  care,  and  because  her  own  time  to 
love  had  not  come.  But  she  knew  all 
about  it ;  she  felt  it  now,  that  exquis 
ite  torture  of  spirit,  born  of  the  neg 
lect  or  the  indifference  of  the  one  loved 
best. 

For,  mortifying  as  it  was  to  her  pride, 
cruel  as  it  was  to  her  love,  there  was  no 
evading  or  forgetting  the  fact  that  he 
had  neglected  her ;  indeed,  at  times  had 
seemed  studiously  oblivious  of  her  ex 
istence.  She  could  not  forget  this,  al 
though  now  he  stood  by  her  side,  and 
talked  with  all  his  old-time  familiarity 
and  interest,  just  as  if  he  had  conversed 
with  her  every  day  since  their  coming 
in  the  same  manner.  Every  word  that 
he  spoke  only  made  her  more  keenly 
conscious  of  the  companionship  that 
she  had  missed ;  and  they  were  to  go 
to-morrow  1  She  could  not  forget  this. 
And  as  she  looked  again  toward  the 
Nautilus,  she  saw  him  already  prome 
nading  the  little  deck,  with  Bella  Pres- 
cott  by  his  side,  and  she  once  more 
playing  the  farce  which  had  grown  to 
b«  so  pitiful — that  of  appearing  gay 
and  happy  with  the  Don.  She  had  sue- 


60 


EIREXE : 


ceeded,  she  knew,  and  had  hidden  her 
torture  from  all  eyes  but  his.  She  did 
not  wish  to  hide  it  from  him ;  she  want 
ed  him  to  know  that  she  suffered  for 
his  sake.  She  would  not  humiliate  her 
self  before  the  world,  for  she  was  a 
proud  woman  ;  but  the  proudest  wom 
an  is  humble  with  the  man  whom  she 
loves.  In  proportion  as  she  prized  her 
love  as  a  very  high  gift,  which  many 
had  fruitlessly  sought  to  win,  she  took 
pleasure  in  making  him  realize  that  she 
had  withheld  it  from  all  others,  that 
she  might  lavish  it  wholly  upon  him  I 
She  was  one  of  those  exceptional  wom 
en,  by  no  means  the  most  sensitive  nor 
the  most  delicate-natured,  yet  romantic 
and  passionate  women,  who  do  not  wait 
to  surrender  their  hearts  in  coy  return 
to  man's  long  wooing,  but  who  choose 
rather  the  bliss  to  give  them  up  un 
claimed.  She  felt  no  maidenly  shame 
that  a  man  who  had  never  positively 
sought  her  love,  still  should  know  that 
she  loved  him  with  all  fervor  and  pas 
sion.  She  gloried  in  the  thought  that 
to  him  she  gave  her  love :  "  As  God 
gives  light  aside  from  merit  or  from 
prayer." 

Yet,  in  proportion  as  she  compared 
the  gifts  which  she  lavished  upon  him, 
with  the  scanty  measure  doled  out  to 
her  in  return,  she  suffered. 

As  she  looked  toward  the  Nautilus, 
Paul  saw  where  her  eyes  rested,  and 
divined  their  meaning,  yet  he  asked : 

"  Why  look  so  sad,  Helena  ?  " 

"  How  can  I  look  otherwise,  Paul  ?  " 
she  answered,  "  when  I  remember  that, 
to-morrow,  the  Nautilus  will  carry  us 
from  this  lovely  spot,  and  that  this  is 
the  first  time  that  you  have  walked  with 
me,  and  must  be  the  last  ?  Why  have 
you  neglected  me  so  utterly  ?  As  a 
friend,  how  could  you  treat  me  so  un 
kindly  ? " 

Something  like  compunction  rose  up 
in  Paul  as  he  felt  the  real  pain  which 
vibrated  through  her  voice.  But  the 
haughtiest  woman,  when  she  makes  a 
man  conscious  that  she  is  dependent 
upon  him  for  happiness,  makes  him  feel 
also  that  he  is  her  master,  and  in  so 
much  she  loses  something  of  her  finest 


power — the  power  which  makes  the  un. 
accepted  lover  seek  a  woman's  love  as 
the  supreme  object  of  his  desire,  if  only 
because  it  seems  remote  and  almost  un 
attainable. 

Paul  was  man  enough  to  know  and 
to  accept  his  advantage,  and  answered 
her  accordingly  in  a  wise,  superior 
voice : 

"  Helena,  you  are  too  dear  a  friend 
for  me  to  treat  unkindly.  I  have  only 
taken  that  course  which  seemed  to  me 
to  be  the  wiser.  You  know,  it  is  dan 
gerous  to  our  happiness  that  we  should 
be  much  together.  Your  feelings  run 
too  deep  to  admit  of  the  surface  inter 
course  of  society,  at  least  with  me.  You 
know,  when  together,  you  and  I  always 
fall  upon  the  most  serious  themes.  If 
we  begin  away  out  in  the  universal,  we 
always  end  in  the  personal.  And  your 
emotions  are  so  absorbing,  so  magnetic 
— I  may  say,  so  tragic — they  affect  me 
very  much ;  indeed,  they  wear  upon  me, 
and  upon  yourself,  and  you  know  we 
came  here  for  rest  and  recreation.  Do 
you  know,  I  thought  Don  Ovedo  a  god 
send  to  you.  He  is  too  sluggish  to  rouse 
in  you  any  emotion  whatever,  so  your 
whole  nature  has  had  a  chance  to 
rest." 

"  Rest !  "  Helena  did  not  finish  the 
sentence.  A  fine  ripple  of  scorn  ran 
along  her  scarlet  lips,  which  would 
have  broken  into  brilliant  sarcasm  if 
any  one  else  had  spoken  thus  to  her. 

There  was  nothing  but  the  most  pain 
ful  anxiety  in  face  and  tone  when  she 
spoke  again,  and  asked  : 

"  Tell  me  the  simple  truth,  Paul : 
what  is  there  between  you  and  Bella 
Prescott  ? " 

"  Nothing." 

"  You  are  not  engaged  to  her  ?  " 

"  No." 

"  Shall  you  propose  to  her  ?  " 

"  I  have  not  decided  to  do  so." 

"  Do  you  love  her  ?  " 

"  No,  I  do  not  love  her." 

"  Then,  if  she  is  only  a  friend,  no 
more  to  you  than  I  am,  why  are  you 
hovering  about  her  continually  ?  Why 
do  you  pay  her  every  attention,  while 
you  neglect  me  altogether  ?  She  does 


A  WOMAN'S  EIGHT. 


M 


not,  she  is  not  capable  of  loving  you  as 
I  do,  Paul." 

"  I  know  that,  Helena,  and  I  don't 
want  her  to  love  me  as  you  do.  It 
would  oppress  and  torment  me,  if  she 
did.  You  know  you  have  grown  to  be 
exacting  and  melancholy.  Bell  is  bright 
and  amusing,  and  makes  me  forget  un 
pleasant  things.  Your  feelings  have  be 
come  so  intense,  that  now  you  upbraid 
me  whenever  we  are  alone.  When  shared 
with  others,  I  enjoy  your  society  as  much 
as  I  ever  did;  but  I  have  spared  my 
self  all  tete-d-tetes — acting  on  the  rule 
I  adopted  long  ago,  whenever  it  is  pos 
sible,  to  avoid  every  thing  disagree 
able." 

Helena  made  no  reply.  But,  as  she 
looked  on  him,  her  memory  reached 
back  over  their  years  of  acquaintance, 
and  took  up  a  few  of  the  numberless 
looks  and  words  and  deeds  by  which 
Paul  Mallane  at  the  first  made  him 
self  attractive,  then  necessary,  and, 
at  last,  infinitely  dear  to  her.  She 
could  not  forget  that,  when  her  heart 
was  free,  and  she  ruled  a  queen  in  her 
little  realm,  happy  in  the  devotion  of 
her  willing  subjects,  that  this  young 
law-student,  whose  only  prestige  was 
his  fine  person  and  showy  talents,  look 
ed  up  and  made  her  preference  the  ob 
ject  of  his  special  pursuit.  And  for 
what  ?  Was  it  that,  after  he  had  made 
the  attentions  of  other  men  seem  to 
her  insipid  and  spiritless — after  he  had 
won  her  heart,  and  he  knew  it — that 
he  might  neglect  her  for  a  girl  as  tri 
fling  as  she  was  pretty  ? 

True,  he  had  never  told  her  that  he 
loved  her.  No,  he  had  studiously  im 
pressed  upon  her  mind  the  fact  that  he 
was  only  her  friend.  Then  why  had 
he  taken  the  course  and  exerted  just 
the  influence  which  he,  with  his  psy 
chical  knowledge,  must  have  known 
would  cause  her  to  love  him  ?  And 
now  that  she  did  love  him,  her  love 
was  only  irksome ;  it  fretted  and  an 
noyed  him  !  She  had  ceased  to  be  the 
merely  brilliant  companion,  and  he  had 
forsaken  her  because  he  wished  only  to 
be  entertained  1  She  would  give  her 
whole  life  to  him,  and  he — he  was  not. 


willing  to  share  with  her  one  unhappy 
moment. 

All  this  thought  and  emotion  rushed 
through  her  brain  and  heart  in  conflict 
ing  tumult,  and  would  have  found  ut 
terance  in  burning  words,  only  love 
made  this  high-strung  creature  timid. 
If  she  spoke  at  all,  she  knew  how  pas 
sionate  would  be  her  reproaches,  and 
she  saw  before  her  a  man  who  would 
not  hear  them.  No,  at  the  very  first 
utterance  he  might  rush  from  her  pres 
ence  ;  and  only  to  stand  so  near  him, 
and  to  gaze  on  him,  sent  a  trembling 
delight  quivering  through  all  her  pain. 
She  looked  on  him  as  Venus  might  have 
looked  on  Adonis. 

The  moon,  just  coming  up  from  the 
ocean,  threw  a  shifting  bridge  of  flame 
across  the  waves  to  their  feet. 

The  air  was  full  of  shimmering  radi 
ance,  and  as  it  fell  on  Paul,  it  enveloped 
him  in  a  halo  which  at  once  brightened 
and  spiritualized  his  beauty.  There 
was  nothing  effeminate  in  it.  It  was 
the  beauty  of  rare  statute  and  of  sym 
metrical  form.  All  the  alluring  charms 
of  color  trembled  in  the  warm  tints, 
contrasting  and  blending  on  lip  and 
cheek,  in  the  bearded  bloom  and  in  the 
deep  shadow  of  his  waving  hair.  In 
tellect,  passion,  and  youth  looked  to 
gether  from  his  eyes.  As  he  gazed 
on  Helena,  unmistakable  admiration 
brightened  his  whole  expression,  but 
not  a  ray  of  love  kindled  in  its  light. 
The  same  subdued  atmosphere  which 
spiritualized  his  beauty,  softened  hers 
refining  an  outline  which,  in  the  coarser 
daylight,  all  lovers  of  a  spirituelle  loveli 
ness  would  have  called  too  strongly  pro 
nounced  and  positive. 

Paul  thought  that  he  had  never  seen 
her  look  so  beautiful  before — and  he 
never  had.  He  had  never  beheld  her 
through  such  a  radiance,  nor  seen  her 
when  her  whole  being  was  moved  with 
emotion  and  passion,  and  all  for  him  ! 

The  hood  of  the  scarlet  cloak  which 
she  had  thrown  over  her  white  robe,  had 
fallen  from  her  head,  loosening  the  jetty 
bands,  which  now  rippled  about  cheek 
and  throat.  The  passion  in  her  heart 
Uad  given  9-  ~ch  bloom  to  her  olive 


62 


EIHEXE : 


cheeks,  and  an  intenser  glow  to  eyes  in 
which  there  seemed  always  to  burn  a 
half-smothered  flame.  There  was  every 
thing  to  move  him — the  breathing  swell 
with  which  the  scarlet  mantle  rose  and 
fell ;  the  dimpled  hand  which  held  it 
across  her  bosom ;  the  Circean  face 
turned  up  to  his.  As  he  looked,  he 
felt  a  sense  of  oppression.  Something 
in  her  seemed  almost  to  stifle  him,  like 
the  over-burdened  atmosphere  of  a  mid 
summer  noon.  She  increased  his  own 
unrest,  because  he  found  in  her  the 
same  qualities  which  already  existed  to 
excess  in  himself.  She  could  influence, 
she  could  oppress  him  ;  she  could  never 
soothe  him,  nor  give  him  peace. 

Yet  she  made  a  glorious  picture, 
standing  there  in  the  moonlight  beside 
the  sea  !  And  all  this  love  and  passion 
was  for  him  I  He  could  not  forget  this. 
He  did  not  love  her ;  but  he  was  a  man, 
and  no  man  is  ever  insensible  to  the  de 
licious  flattery  of  a  beautiful  woman's 
love,  even  if  he  does  not  love  her  in 
return.  The  very  thought,  "  She  loves 
me,"  makes  him  unconsciously  tender. 
As  Paul  looked  into  those  brooding 
eyes,  with  their  burden  of  unshed  tears, 
he  experienced  a  sensation  half  regret, 
half  delight,  that  this  impassioned  crea 
ture,  who  had  triumphed  over  so  many 
men,  was  now  suffering  all  this  torture 
of  love  for  him!  "For  me!"  he 
thought,  as  he  felt  once  more  the  con 
sciousness  so  delightful  to  him,  that  he 
was  gifted  with  an  inherent  power  over 
women  of  the  higher  type.  He  was 
man  enough  and  weak  enough  to  be 
ambitious  for  this  power,  and  vain 
when  he  had  won  it.  It  was  very  flat 
tering,  this  picture  before  him.  Vanity 
and  sense  were  satisfied.  When  he 
spoke  again,  all  loftiness  had  vanished 
from  his  voice.  It  was  low  and  tender, 
as  he  said : 

"  Helena,  if  you  could  know  how  dear 
you  are  to  me,  how  sincerely  I  desire  to 
see  you  happy,  you  wtoukl  never  allow 
any  seeming  neglect  to  trouble  you.  It 
is  not  because  I  do  not  care  for  you,  but 
because  you  have  such  power  over  me, 
that  I  do  not  trust  myself  with  you 
oftener.  You  know  why  it  is ;  we  are 


too  much  alike.  We  might  love  each 
other  passionately,  but  it  would  always 
be  a  troubled,  maddening  love.  Nei 
ther  can  give  the  repose  which  the  other 
craves.  Yet  you  know  you  are  more  to 
me  than  a  hundred  Bell  Prescotts.  You 
could  think  and  feel  more  in  one  hour 
than  she  could  conceive  of  in  a  life 
time.  She  entertains  me — she  keeps 
me  from  feeling  too  serious ;  but  you 
are  perfectly  certain  that  she  could  nev 
er  be  to  me  the  absorbing  creature  that 
you  are.  You  know,  before  I  tell  you, 
that  she  is  not  at  all  the  woman  whose 
love  could  satisfy  me.  Indeed,  I  do 
not  believe  that  she  can  love  as  you 
and  I  understand  love,  Helena." 

The  white  hand  rising  and  falling  on 
the  scarlet  cloak — its  tantalizing  jewels, 
which  seemed  at  once  to  mock  and  to 
allure  him  toward  it — was  here  irresist 
ible  to  Paul.  He  took  it  gently  into 
his,  that  too  willing,  that  too  happy 
little  hand. 

And  then  that  mysterious  silence 
which  falls  on  a  man  and  woman  only 
where  one  or  both  love ;  that  subtle 
silence,  so  much  deeper,  so  much  more 
dangerous  than  all  speech,  covered  them 
with  its  spell. 

The  sudden  revulsion  from  anguish 
to  triumph,  from  the  most  exquisite 
pain  to  the  more  exquisite  happiness, 
for  a  moment  seemed  to  Helena  more 
than  she  could  bear.  In  a  calmer  mo 
ment  she  would  remember  that  no  prom 
ise  of  coming  happiness,  no  assurance 
of  such  a  love  as  she  yearned  for,  had 
been  expressed  in  one  word  that  he  had 
uttered.  But  she  was  not  conscious  of 
this  now ;  she  only  knew  that  he  had 
said  what  she  at  this  time  had  longed 
most  and  hoped  the  least  to  hear — that 
she  was  more  to  him  than  Isabella  Pres- 
cott ! — that,  after  all,  Bell  Prescott  was 
only  a  pretty  toy,  that  wiled  him  for 
the  time  to  forget  Helena  Maynard's 
deeper  power.  He  had  acknowledged 
this  power,  and  what  was  it  but  the 
power  of  love ! 

If  he  was  compelled  to  shun  her  in 
order  to  find  strength  to  resist  it  now, 
in  time  might  she  not  win  from  him  the 
utmost  that  she  desired — *"«•  undivided 


A  WOMAN'S  EIGHT. 


G3 


heart?  At  the  very  thought,  she  felt 
her  own  beat  as  if  it  would  escape  from 
her  breast ;  her  eyes  grew  more  lumin 
ous,  her  face  radiated  a  joy  which  no 
language  could  declare.  Her  whole 
being,  brain,  and  spirit  were  eloquent 
with  emotion.  That  moment  there  was 
a  dangerous  splendor  in  her  beauty,  an 
almost  fatal  magnetism  in  the  hand 
which  fluttered  in  Paul's.  He  slowly 
said : 

"  Bella  Prescott  is  a  pretty  plaything, 
but  you ! " 

That  delicious  sentence  was  never 
ended. 

A  light,  mocking  laugh  broke  through 
the  cedars.  Paul  dropped  her  hand  as 
if  he  had  been  struck.  Quickly  as  he 
did  it,  the  act  was  seen  by  the  acute 
eyes  of  Bell  Prescott. 

The  artless  young  lady,  who  had 
made  it  her  business  to  approach  very 
quietly,  that  moment  appeared  upon  the 
beach,  leading  Don  Ovedo  by  a  hand 
kerchief  which  she  had  tied  to  one  of 
his  wrists.  With  the  most  innocent  air 
possible,  she  led  the  delighted  and  ap 
parently  demented  Don  up  to  the  con 
scious  couple,  exclaiming,  with  all  her 
usual  naivete : 

"  Helena,  here's  your  prisoner.  I  have 
done  my  best  to  comfort  him,  and  he  is 
inconsolable.  So  I  have  brought  him 
back  to  you." 

Don  Ovedo  was  too  gallant  a  gentle 
man  to  deny  this  accusation  in  the  pres 
ence  of  the  lady  for  whom  he  was  said 
to  mourn.  Nevertheless,  he  hardly  knew 
how  to  bear  this  finale  to  the  last  heav 
enly  half  hour.  When  Bell  Prescott 
tied  her  laced  and  perfumed  handker 
chief  around  his  wrist,  with  so  many 
bewitching  glances,  the  SeQor  thought 
that  he  would  like  to  have  her  lead 
him  up  and  down  forever,  provided  she 
would  continue  to  look  at  him  from  un 
der  her  lashes  as  she  did  that  moment. 

It  was  a  sore  disappointment  to  be 
led  directly  back  to  the  handsome  Miss 
Maynard.  Pretty  Miss  Prescott  not 
only  entertained,  she  delighted  him ; 
how  cruel  of  her,  then,  to  doom  him 
again  to  the  overpowering  company  of 
la  petite  duchesse,  just  because  she  her 


self  was  uneasy  out  of  the  society  of 
the  handsome  Yankee.  Even  the  stupid 
Sefior  was  bright  enough  to  know  this. 

Other  parties  coming  up,  the  com 
pany  became  general,  to  the  great  relief 
of  Paul,  who  felt  any  thing  but  com 
fortable  standing  between  two  young 
ladies,  to  each  of  whom,  during  the  last 
twenty-four  hours,  he  had  committed 
the  pleasant  little  confidence  that  the 
other  was  not  at  all  the  style  of  woman 
that  he  admired,  and,  consequently, 
nothing  at  all  to  him  ! 

Helena's  love,  so  intense  and  real,  had 
moved  him  to  a  half  pitiful,  half  pas 
sionate  teHderness  which  had  not  been 
simulated,  therefore  he  did  not  find  it 
easy  to  rebound  instantly  to  the  surface 
of  Bell  Prescott's  chatter.  She  was  the 
only  one  of  the  three  perfectly  uncon 
strained.  At  the  sight  of  her,  a  pang 
of  positive  hate  shot  through  Helena's 
heart.  She  could  not  bear  the  sight 
of  the  trivial  face  that  had  come 
once  more  between  her  and  her  joy. 
For  the  first  time  in  all  their  inter 
course  the  intensity  of  her  feeling  made 
her  powerless  to  feign  a  kindliness  which 
she  did  not  feel.  She  regarded  Bell's 
intrusion  as  unpardonable,  almost  an 
insult.  She,  with  all  that  she  had  suf 
fered,  had  never  broken  in  upon  any 
of  Paul  and  Bell's  tete-d-tetes.  She  had 
been  too  proud  and  too  respectful,  at 
least  toward  him.  The  disgust  and  in 
dignation  which  she  felt  were  perfectly 
apparent  upon  her  haughty  features. 
Paul  saw  the  expression,  and  it  made 
him  very  uncomfortable.  Isabella  Pres 
cott  saw  it,  and  the  sight  filled  her  with 
delight.  Her  gayety  increased  Paul's 
discomfiture.  He  by  no  means  feit  cer 
tain  of  so  much  unconscious  artlessness. 
Somehow  he  could  not  rid  himself  of 
a  mortifying  consciousness,  that,  after 
all  he  had  said  to  'her  of  his  non-admi 
ration  of  Helena's  "  style,"  that  Miss 
Bella  did  see  him  hold  and  then  drop 
Helena's  hand  ;  for  he  remembered  that 
his  face  had  been  turned  from  her,  and 
that  she  and  the  Don  were  very  near 
before  he  heard  them  at  all.  Was  it 
to  convince  her  that  what  she  had  seen 
meant  nothing  whatever,  that,  a  few 


64 


EIEENE : 


moments  after,  he  allowed  her  to  ob 
tain  precisely  what  she  had  all  the  time 
intended  to  secure — himself  as  an  es 
cort  back  to  the  cottage  ? 

Helena  returned  with  the  Don,  the 
perfect  bliss  of  a  few  moments  before 
supplanted  by  a  bitterness  which  could 
not  be  fathomed. 

Was  it  true,  or  was  it  only  a  dream, 
that  she  stood  with  him  alone,  so  near 
in  person,  so  near  in  spirit,  in  joy  so 
complete  ?  Why  had  he  been  so  near, 
now  only  to  be  so  far — so  far,  that  all 
the  universe  seemed  to  be  between 
them? 

Her  keenest  pain  came  from  her  dis 
trust  of  him — from  a  stinging  conscious 
ness  that,  in  some  way,  he  was  playing 
a  double  part  between  Isabella  Prescott 
and  herself.  She  could  not  forget,  at 
the  sound  of  Bell's  voice,  with  what  a 
shock  he  'dropped  her  hand,  nor  how 
constrained  he  looked  at  the  sight  of 
Bell's  face ;  nor,  after  all  that  he  had 
said,  how  ready  he  had  been  to  leave 
her  and  walk  back  with  her  rival. 

Meanwhile,  Bell,  coquetting  by  his 
side,  delighted  with  her  triumph,  was 
thinking  as  well  of  the  lover-like  atti 
tude  in  which  she  had  seen  him  stand 
by  Helena — of  tho  way  in  which  he 
held  her  hand.  "  He  is  a  flirt,"  she 
said,  mentally.  "  When  he  finds  an 
opportunity,  he  says  the  same  fine 
things  to  Helena  which  he  says  to  me  ; 
and,  no  doubt,  says  sweeter  things  to 
the  shop-girl  than  he  says  to  either. 
Never  mind,  Sir  Knight !  I  shall  pun 
ish  you  in  the  proper  time." 

Each  girl  distrusted  him  thoroughly, 
and  each  was  effected  according  to  her 
nature.  Helena's  tortured  love  cried  out, 
and  only  loyed  him  the  more  for  its 
cruel  doubts.  Bell's  piqued  and  angry 
vanity  leaped  out  to  the  future,  and 
foresaw  his  punishment  and  her  own 
triumph. 

As  for'Pa'ul,  he  walked  on  perfectly 
conscious  that,  while  he  had  spoken 
truth  to  both  of  these  girls,  he  had 
been  sincere  with  neither.  After  the 
evil  in  his  soul  had  triumphed,  his 
good  angel  always  came  back  to  him 
and  told  him,  with  tearful  pity,  just 


'how  he  had  sinned.  Some  over-mas 
tering  bent  of  his  nature  was  forever 
forcing  him  on  to  do  that  which  he 
afterward  regretted.  For,  no  matter 
how  far  he  was  carried  by  impulse, 
his  brain  never  let  him  commit  any 
act  unconsciously.  He  would  do  some 
ignoble  deed,  and  then  despise  him 
self,  hate  himself,  and  resolve  to  do 
better.  Yet  he  invariably  went  and 
did  the  same  thing  again,  or  something 
worse,  if  at  the  time  it  only  pleased 
him  so  to  do.  Thus  nearly  the  whole 
of  his  life  had  been  spent  in  sinning 
against  his  better  nature,  and  in  hating 
himself  for  doing  it. 

An  hour  or  two  after  the  walk  from 
the  beach,  Bell  Prescott  having  seen  the 
sleepy  Dolores  close  her  eyes  for  the 
night,  turned  to  her  mirror  and  com 
menced  brushing  out  her  curls  and 
making  pretty  mouths  to  herself  in  the 
glass.  But  every  few  moments  an  ex 
pression  would  come  over  her  face  which 
contrasted  oddly  with  her  unthoughtful 
features.  Yet  it  must  have  meant  some 
thing  positive  ;  for  at  last  she  exclaim 
ed  :  "  Yes  ;  he  will  do  it  yet !  Then  I 
will  have  my  revenge.  Bell  Prescott, 
you  can  afford  to  wait." 

At  the  same  time  Helena  Maynard 
was  sitting  alone  in  an  adjoining  room. 
A  candle  was  burning  dimly  on  the  ta 
ble  by  which  she  sat,  or  rather  leaned, 
her  cheek  resting  on  her  hand.  Her 
loosened  hair  fell  over  her  white  dra 
peries  and  about  her  whiter  face,  its 
blackness  making  her  beauty  seem  al 
most  ghastly.  She  held  one  hand  on 
her  heart,  and  her  breath  seemed  stifled, 
as  if  she  were  suffering  physical  pain. 

"Retribution  !  retribution  ! "  she  said 
slowly.  "  I  deserve  it  all.  I  trifled 
with  Dukehart.  I  trampled  on  him, 
and  be  was  a  noble  man  ;  he  A\  as  truth 
itself.  I  made  him  wretched  ;  I  short 
ened  his  days  because  he  loved  me. 
This  is  my  recompense.  Then,  how  was 
I  to  know  that  I  could  ever  love  like 
this  ?  Had  I  known  how  a  heart  can 
suffer  because  it  loves,  at  least  I  should 
have  been  pitiful,  I  should  have  been 
kind.  I  was  cruel,  and  I  take  my  re 
ward.  How  true  it  is,  that  no  wrong 


A  WOMAN'S  RIGHT. 


65 


which  we  do  another  can  escape  its  pen 
alty  even  in  this  life.  Paul,  Paul !  " 

Paul,  who  had  refused  Dick  Prescott's 
invitation  to  play  a  game  of  billiards, 
was  also  in  his  room  sitting  alone  in 
the  dark.  The  glowing  crest  of  his 
cigar  revealed  where  he  sat,  leaning 
back  in  his  chair,  his  feet  on  the  low 
window-ledge.  To  turn  away,  to  flee 
from  whatever  chafed  or  annoyed  him, 
was  an  instinct  of  his  nature.  After 
the  evening's  experience,  he  was  begin 
ning  to  feel  that  both  Bell  and  Helena 
teased  him  more  than  they  amused  him ; 
and  that  moment  he  felt  heartily  tired 
of  both,  and  glad  that  the  pleasure-trip 
was  nearly  at  an  end.  Beside,  as  he  sat 
there  smoking  and  thinking,  he  des 
pised  himself  more  and  more,  as  he 
realized  the  pitiful  subterfuges  to  which, 
a  man  is  driven,  who,  in  order  to  retain 
a  certain  power  over  both,  without  lov 
ing  either,  acts  a  double  part  between 
two  women.  He  realized,  too,  the  pet 
tiness  of  word  and  deed  to  which  two 
women  sink,  who  regarding  each  other 
as  rivals,  struggle  against  each  other  to 
possess  the  exclusive  devotion  of  one 
man.  Oh,  the  littleness,  the  bitterness, 
the  misery  born  of  rivalry,  insincerity, 
and  misplaced  passion  ! 

Paul  made  no  ejaculations  over  it,  yet 
felt  conscious  of  it  all.  He  liked  to 
flirt — it  was  his  favorite  pastime ;  but 
the  moment  it  merged  into  any  thing 
serious,  it  ceased  to  amuse  him,  it  fa 
tigued  and  worried  him,  and  then  his 
supreme  desire  was  to  be  well  rid  of  it. 
He  felt  no  compunction  over  Bell.  "  She 
is  quite  my  match,"  he  said  to  himself. 
"  I  must  keep  my  eyes  open,  or  the  lit 
tle  minx  will  play  me  a  game. 

"  But  Helena  !  Who  could  have  be 
lieved  that  love  would  so  subdue  her. 
And  for  me  !  How  superbly  handsome 
she  looked  on  the  beach.  I  think  that 
I  showed  great  self-command  in  only 
taking  her  hand.  Yet  I  cannot  love 
her.  I  will  not  marry  her ;  she  would 
torment  me  to  death.  But  111  stop 
treating  her  meanly.  I  am  a  scamp  to 
do  it,  when  she  is  so  generous  to  me. 
Yet  I  could  never  help  it,  if  Bell  Pres- 
cott  were  near  us.  I  believe  there  is  a 
5 


devil  in  that  girl.  She  certainly  seta 
me  to  acting  like  one.  There's  some 
thing  in  her  that  calls  out  the  worst  in 
me.  Confound  it !  How  did  she  make 
me  walk  back  with  her  to-night  ?  I  did 
not  intend  to  do  it.  It  was  a  shabby 
trick,  leaving  Helena  after  I  had  invited 
her  to  a  walk.  The  trouble  was,  I  had 
told  Bell  so  many  times,  that  Hele'.a 
was  not  my  style ;  and  yet  I  know  she 
saw  me  holding  her  hand  and  st^ndinj' 
beside  her  like  a  lover;  and  m',re  is  t\e 
wonder  if  she  did  not  hear  r.e  tell  Hel 
ena  the  very  same  thing  p  jout  lr  rsel  f, 
that  she,  Bell  Prescott,  >"  ^  not  at  A!!  ray 
style;  that  was  what  L  call  ''.  fix.'  I 
was  caught,  sure  enough;  ? &\  served 
me  right  for  beinr^  two-face  J.  Yet  it  is 
for  my  interest  to  keep  Jell  good-na 
tured.  She  is  a  match.  Once  married, 
we  could  quarrel  to  ou/  heart's  content. 
It  wouldn't  hurt  her,  nor  me  either ;  she 
could  go  her  way,  and  I  mine.  But 
that  could  never  be  with  Helena  ;  we 
should  kill  each  other." 

The  longer  he  thought  of  each,  the 
more  weary  he  felt  of  both.  He  had 
been  playing  a  part,  and  for  the  present, 
at  least,  was  very  tired  of  it.  But  it 
was  a  necessity  of  his  pleasure-loving 
nature  always  to  possess  some  object  to 
ward  which  he  could  turn  with  satisfac 
tion,  if  not  delight.  In  the  same  pro 
portion  that  the  complication  between 
Bell  and  Helena  grew  annoying,  came 
back  the  face  which  for  weeks  and 
months  he  had  persistently  banished. 
This  moment  he  did  not  resist  it ;  he 
welcomed  it.  He  was  no  longer  amused, 
nor  even  pleasantly  occupied.  No,  lie 
was  fretted  and  discontented,  and  the 
supreme  mission  of  this  face  was  to 
soothe  and  to  satisfy.  His  restless  heart 
yearned  for  something  to  rest  on  ;  and 
what  in  all  his  life  had  he  found  so  suf 
ficing  as  this  face,  with  its  promise  of 
utter  love,  and  of  perfect  peace  ?  With 
the  soft  sea-air  flowing  over  the  pines  it 
came  in  to  him,  with  the  old  vividness, 
the  old  thrill,  half  wonder,  half  ecstacy 
which  strikes  through  a  man's  being, 
when  for  the  first  time  in  his  life  he 
feels  that  he  supremely  loves. 

"  Darling,   my   brown-eyed    darling, 


EIEENB : 


/  love  you.  You  I  will  never  deceive. 
To  you  I  will  be  only  true,"  he  mur 
mured,  leaning  forward,  as  if  an  actual 
presence  came  in  through  the  darkness 
from  the  outer  air,  to  whom  he  gave 
this  greeting. 

His  mind  was  too  wearied  to  assert 
its  wise  plans,  his  heart  too  eager  to  be 
denied.  It  might  all  be  different  to 
morrow.  But  this  night,  at  least,  the 
dear  vision  remained  with  him,  and 
Paul  passed  out  into  the  realm  of  sleep, 
gazing  into  its  eyes. 

One  week  later,  the  Nautilus  had 
folded  its  sails,  and  rested  on  the  low 
tide  below  the  Charles. 

Dick  Prescott  and  Dolores,  Bell  and 
Don  Ovedo  had  gone  to  Saratoga.  Hel 
ena  Maynard  was  with  her  parents  in 
their  cottage  at  Nahant.  Both  girls 
thought  of  Paul  more  than  of  any  body 
else ;  one  with  a  latent  hope,  the  other 
with  a  clearly  denned  and  secretly 
avowed  purpose. 

Paul  had  written  a  long  letter  to  Hel 
ena,  in  which  he  called  her  "  dear  girl " 
and  "  dearest  sister."  In  this  letter  he 
sincerely  intended  to  make  some  repara 
tion  for  the  subtle  wrong  which  his  con 
science  very  clearly  informed  him  that  he 
had  clone  her.  The  result  was,  that  he 
made  the  matter  worse  by  unconsciously 
causing  himself  to  seem  to  her  more 
noble  and  precious  than  ever  before. 
Her  reply  was  full  of  characteristic  gen 
erosity.  She  exonerated  him  from  the 
faintest  blame.  It  was  not  his  fault  that 
he  possessed  so  many  manly  qualities ; 
so  many  mental  and  personal  attractions 
that  she  could  not  choose  but  love  him. 
She  had  been  unreasonable,  she  had 
done  him  injustice.  He  must  forgive 
her.  She  saw  so  distinctly  now  that 
his  course  on  the  island  was  pursued 
only  for  the  good  of  both ;  a  fresh  proof 
of  his  fine  sense  of  honor,  and  his  kindly 
care  for  her  happiness.  She  had  chosen 
her  future  life.  She  should  never  marry. 
Lite  spent  alone  for  his  sake,  would  be 
dearer  and  happier  than  any  life  could 
be  shared  with  another.  She  felt  that 
hitherto  her  whole  existence  had  been 
artificial  and  false. 

She  had  lived  to  allure  men  ;  to  win 


their  homage,  to  conquer  them  ;  yes,  to 
trifle  with  them. 

She  should  never  do  this  again.  She 
had  ceased  to  care  for  admiration,  and 
longed  only  for  the  love  of  one.  She 
had  been  a  great  sinner,  but  had  repent 
ed,  and  henceforth  should  live  a  life 
devoted  to  piety  and  good  works.  Like 
all  women  of  her  nature,  weary  of  am 
bition,  or  disappointed  in  love,  Helena 
turned  for  consolation  to  religion.  She 
almost  wished  herself  a  nun,  that  she 
might  retire  to  a  convent  for  a  season. 
But  as  it  was,  she  should  seclude  her 
self  from  society ;  she  should  devote  the 
winter  to  teaching  in  ragged  schools,  in 
visiting  the  poor,  in  attending  meetings 
for  prayer,  and  in  writing  articles  for 
the  magazines.  Before  Helena  knew  it, 
she  found  not  only  unconscious  consola 
tion,  but  real  delight  in  these  pictures 
of  a  new  life. 

For  some  way  in  the  foreground  of 
all  she  saw  a  very  handsome  young 
woman,  whose  strong  beauty  was  sub 
dued  by  a  nun-like  garb. 

What  was  stranger  still,  not  very  far 
in  the  background  there  hovered  a  hand 
some  young  man.  And  there  still  lin 
gered  in  Helena's  heart,  though  she  did 
not  know  it,  a  delicious  hope  that  when 
the  young  man  crossed  the  path  of  this 
beautiful  sister  of  mercy,  as  he  surely 
would,  that  he  would  succumb  to  the  sub 
dued  eyes  and  the  dovelike  dress,  as  he 
never  had  done  when  she  loved  him  and 
sought  him  in  the  apparel  of  the  world. 

AT   BirSTVILLR   AGAIN. 

One  week  from  the  evening  when 
Paul  walked  with  Helena  on  the  beach, 
the  d6pot-coach  of  Busyville  rolled  up 
to  the  white  house  under  the  maples, 
opposite  John  Mallane's  factories,  and 
Paul  alighted. 

He  had  entered  the  gate,  and  was 
passing  with  quick  steps  toward  the 
house,  when  he  heard  his  name  called 
with  a  clear,  shrill  cry  :  "  Paul  !  Paul ! 
pretty  Paul !  "  Turning  around,  he  saw 
Momo  sitting  in  his  cage  in  Seth  Good- 
love's  window,  and  beside  it,  on  a  low 
seat,  apparently  busy  with  something 
before  her,  he  saw  Eirene. 


A  WOMAN'S  RIGHT. 


67 


She  looked  up  when  the  coach  stop 
ped  ;  but  this  same  coach,  with  its  roll 
and  rumble  and  bustle  of  disburdening 
luggage  and  passenger  had  started 
Momo  from  his  blinking  meditation 
into  this  loud  outcry,  and  she  did  not 
look  up  now.  If  Paul  had  been  near 
enough,  he  would  have  seen  that  her 
cheeks  were  scarlet  with  blushes. 

She  saw  Paul  when  he  alighted,  and 
Homo's  cries  filled  her  with  consterna 
tion.  "  Oh  Tilda,"  she  said  involunta 
rily  ;  "  will  Mr.  Mallane  think  that  I 
taught  Momo  to  call  his  name  in  such  a 
saucy  way  ? " 

Whereupon  Tilda  commenced  a  lec 
ture  upon  the  folly  of  possessing  a  par 
rot,  and  the  sin  of  caring  what  Mr.  Paul 
Mallane  thought,  ending  with  an  ejacu 


lation  of  pious  gratitude  that  to-morrow 
morning  was  "  camp-meeting  morning," 
and  then,  she  "  blessed  the  Lord."  This 
camp-meeting  was  her  only  hope  of  sav 
ing  Eirene  from  destruction.  The  wolf 
had  come,  and  she  was  ready  to  fly  with 
her  lamb  to  the  arms  of  the.  Good  Shep 
herd. 

Meanwhile,  Mr.  Paul  Mallane  had 
disappeared  inside  of  his  father's  house. 
He  did  so,  saying  to  himself:  "  Can  it 
be  that  she  has  taught  that  bird  to  call 
my  name  ?  "  An  instant  afterwards  he 
thought :  "  No.  Confound  it !  It  was 
the  young  ones.  I  remember,  I  heard 
them  at  it  myself.  But,  I  think  that 
she  might  have  looked  up,"  he  added, 
with  a  sense  of  injury.  "  She  knew  that 
it  was  I." 


vn. 


CAMP-MEETING. 


EIRENE  sat  by  the  window,  filling  a 
basket  with  cakes  and  sandwiches, 
which  Sister  Goodlove  had  given  to 
her  and  Tilda  to  carry  to  camp-meeting 
the  next  morning.  How  she  had  count 
ed  the  days,  and  longed  for  the  coming 
of  this  camp-meeting  morning  !  If  she 
had  analyzed  her  emotions  (which  she 
never  did),  she  would  have  discovered 
that  she  had  scarcely  thought  of  the 
camp-meeting  at  all  as  a  religious  ser 
vice.  Having  never  attended  one,  she 
might  have  fancied  that  it  would  be 
pleasant  to  hear  people  pray  and  sing 
in  the  open  air — only  she  did  not  think 
of  the  people  at  all.  She  longed  for 
her  old  friends,  the  woods,  the  air,  the 
summer  sky.  From  babyhood  these 
had  been  her  closest  companions,  and 
this  was  the  first  year  of  her  life  that 
had  shut  her  away  from  them  all.  From 
this  low  seat,  where  she  sat  now,  she  had 
watched  the  sunset  scarlets  glinting 
through  the  trees  of  Mr.  Mallane's  gar 
den.  Above  the  window,  in  the  shop 


where  she  stood  at  work,  spread  a  nar 
row  slip  of  sky ;  and,  looking  up,  she 
had  sometimes  seen  the  peaceful  clouds 
come  sailing  down  the  valley,  and  this 
was  all  that  she  had  known  of  the  sum 
mer.  Often,  in  the  languid  evenings, 
she  had  dropped  her  book  and  turned 
a  wistful  face  away  from  Tilda  Stade's 
scrutinizing  gaze  and  wearying  voice, 
and,  looking  beyond  the  trees  out  to 
the  serene  West,  a  soft  desire  had  stirred 
in  her  heart  for  something  sweeter  and 
better  than  she  had  ever  known — she 
knew  not  what.  We,  who  know  her 
well,  know  that  it  was  the  first  mysteri 
ous  stir  of  the  soul  of  the  girl-woman, 
dimly  yearning  for  companionship,  for 
sympathy,  for  tenderness,  such  as  had 
never  entered  her  barren  life  in  Busy- 
ville.  The  summer  should  have  given 
some  holiday  to  seventeen ;  it  had  given 
none  to  her.  But  going  to  the  woods 
for  a  single  day,  she  thought,  would  be 
a  good  deal  better  than  nothing.  Thus, 
light  of  heart,  at  five  o'clock  the  next 
morning,  she  ascended,  with  Tilda,  into 


68 


EIKEXS: 


the  vehicle  of  Brother  Goodlove,  which 
was  to  carry  his  brethren  and  sisters  to 
the  camp-ground  for  twenty-five  cents  a 
person.  It  was  a  high,  springless  wagon, 
with  boards  laid  across  for  seats,  and, 
this  morning,  was  crowded  with  passen 
gers.  A  number  of  sisters  bore  witness 
to  its  being  a  very  uncomfortable  equi 
page,  by  sundry  little  groans  concerning 
their  aching  backs.  Eirene,  sitting  at 
one  end,  where  the  boughs  of  the  bend 
ing  trees  brushed  her  as  she  passed, 
thought  of  nothing  but  the  pleasures 
of  the  ride.  The  road  ran  by  seques 
tered  farms  and  through  the  woods,  all 
the  way.  The  young  light  shimmered 
through  the  leaves  above  and  around 
them ;  the  air  was  full  of  soft  sounds 
and  of  pleasant  smells  ;  of  the  fragrance 
of  resinous  branches  and  juicy  ferns 
crushed  beneath  the  wagon-wheels.  Ei 
rene  took  it  in  at  every  pore,  and 
grew  as  glad  as  the  birds  singing  over 
her  head.  After  a  two  hours'  drive, 
they  entered  a  new  road  cut  through 
the  woods,  and  a  distinct  murmur  of 
human  voices  reached  their  ears ;  and 
then  what  seemed  to  Eirene  to  be  an 
extraordinary  sight  for  such  a  place, 
greeted  her  eyes.  Under  the  trees,  all 
along  the  roadside,  booths  had  been 
erected  of  green  boughs,  and  under  them 
men  and  women  seemed  'to  be  driving 
an  astonishing  trade  in  small-beer,  gin 
gerbread,  candies  and  doughnuts,  and 
other  harmless  commodities.  New-com 
ers  were  constantly  arriving.  Wagon- 
loads  of  the  sisters  and  brethren  of  the 
c' lurch;  young  men  and  their  "girls," 
is:  buggies,  arrayed  in  their  best,  nearly 
all  of  whom  stopped  at  the  stalls  to  re 
gale  themselves  with  ginger-pop,  pea 
nuts,  and  other  innocent  refreshments. 
At  last,  through  the  shifting  leaves, 
Eirene  caught  glimpses  of  white  tents, 
forming  a  semicircle  under  the  forest- 
trees,  surrounding  an  amphitheatre  of 
rude  seats  facing  a  rude  pulpit  canopied 
by  the  boughs  of  beeches  and  elms. 
Their  wagon  stopped  outside  of  this  in- 
closure.  Tilda  Stade,  hurriedly  alight 
ing,  assisted  Eirene  to  do  the  same,  in 
forming  her,  at  the  same  time,  that  this 
was  the  "  blessed  camp-ground,  and 


yonder  was  the  very  spot  where  she  re 
ceived  the  blessing  of  sanctificatiou — 
where  Jesus  spoke  perfect  peace  to  her 
soul."  Taking  Eirene's  hand,  she  led 
her  toward  a  large  tent  bearing  the 
name  of  "  Busyville  "  above  the  door. 
They  were  now  fairly  on  the  camp 
ground,  and  Eirene  beheld  what  was  to 
her  a  most  unwonted  and  picturesque 
sight.  Tiny  fires,  made  from  dried 
boughs,  were  crackling  in  the  rear  of 
every  tent ;  and  on  these,  kettles  were 
boiling  and  meats  were  frying.  Extem 
pore  tables,  set  under  the  trees,  were 
spread  with  white  cloths,  garnished 
with  flowers,  and  loaded  with  viands. 
Pretty  young  sisters  in  white  sun-bon 
nets,  white  aprons,  and  gay  frocks, 
superintended  these  tables ;  while  ma 
trons  in  close  "  shakers "  and  demure 
dresses  hovered  about  the  fires,  guard 
ing  the  meats  and  watching  the  tea-pots 
and  coffee-pots,  lest  their  delicious 
liquids  should  run  too  low  to  supply 
the  numerous  hungry  people  waiting 
for  breakfast.  The  air  was  full  of  the 
most  varied  sounds.  Birds  twittered  in 
the  trees.  Girls  chattered  and  laughed 
with  each  other,  and  flirted  in  a  half- 
subdued,  half-pious  way,  with  the  young 
brethren,  whose  plates  they  piled  and 
whose  cups  they  filled  ;  while  the  wom 
en  by  the  fires  talked  in  low,  mysteri 
ous  tones  to  each  other,  as  women  will. 
From  manifold  tents  issued  the  sounds 
of  morning  devotions.  Old  hymns  and 
old  tunes  of  every  conceivable  rhythm 
and  metre  met  in  mid-air  in  inextricable 
confusion.  In  one  tent  could  be  heard 
the  sobs  of  a  sore  soul  wailing  over  its 
sins,  amid  a  Babel  of  prayers  rising  to 
heaven  in  its  behalf;  from  another  came 
a  solitary  voice,  fervent  and  sonorous, 
going  up  to  God  in  early  thanksgiving  ; 
while  from  every  direction  came  cho 
ruses  of  voices  shouting,  "  Bless  the 
Lord  !  "  «  Glory  to  God  !  "  The  whole 
scene  bore  witness  to  what  it  was — a 
great  religious  picnic,  in  which  material 
pleasure  and  human  happiness  blended 
very  largely  with  spiritual  experience. 
The  appearance  of  Tilda  Stade  on  the 
camp-ground  was  a  signal  for  rejoicing 
to  the  more  zealous  Christians,  for  it 


A  WOMAN'S  EIGHT. 


69 


was  a  sure  promise  of  increased  zeal  in 
the  prayer-meetings.  As  they  gathered 
around  to  welcome  her,  Eireue  was  left 
standing  alone  for  a  moment ;  and, 
looking  about  her.  saw,  for  the  first 
time,  an  individual  who  had  seen  her 
from  the  first  moment  of  her  appear 
ance.  It  was  good  Brother  Viner, 
standing  at  the  head  of  the  table,  evi 
dently  just  concluding  his  breakfast. 
He  looked  red  in  the  face,  and  uncom 
fortable,  as  if  the  sisters  were  overfeed 
ing  him  that  warm  morning.  He  was 
literally  besieged  by  women,  young  and 
old,  each  one  producing,  from  her  par 
ticular  basket  or  from  her  particular 
fire,  some  viand,  hot  or  cold,  setting  it 
before  her  minister,  with  the  exclama 
tion,  "  Oh,  Brother  Viner,  do  taste  this; 
I  made  it  on  purpose  for  you  !  "  "  Oh, 
Brother  Viner,  where's  your  appetite 
gone  to  ?  You  must  eat  your  break 
fast  !  "  Brother  Viner  did  not  like  to 
appear  ungrateful,  and  thus  kept  on 
tasting  each  dish  set  before  him.  It 
was  a  sight  to  behold  them — the  dishes 
of  pork  and  beans,  cold  ham,  succotash, 
omelets,  doughnuts,  crullers,  pies,  pre 
serves,  pickles,  all  heaped  up  before  the 
unfortunate  minister.  Brother  Viner 
had  an  excellent  appetite,  and,  at  first, 
attacked  this  conflicting  mass  of  food 
with  all  the  zest  of  a  young  and  vigor 
ous  stomach;  but  even  he  was  no  proof 
against  the  ignorant  kindness  of  women 
— a  kindness  that  has  caused  more  sour 
stomachs  and  sour  theology  than  the 
most  powerful  imagination  ever  con 
ceived.  Brother  Viner  looked  up  from 
the  mass  on  his  plate,  and  beheld  Eirene 
looking  toward  him  with  wondering 
eyes.  He  recognized  her  at  once  as  the 
innocent-looking  little  sinner  who  had 
caused  the  prayer-meeting  at  Sister  Mai- 
lane's.  Here  she  was  on  the  camp 
ground — the  place  of  all  others  for  her 
conversion,  the  most  appropriate  in 
which  to  reclaim  her  from  the  error  of 
her  ways  ;  and  what  an  interesting  sub 
ject  !  Brother  Viner  could  not  help 
seeing  this.  He  was  a  young  man,  and, 
like  any  other  young  man,  could  not 
help  feeling  a  more  spontaneous  inter 
est  in  a  lovely  girl  than  in  an  ugly  one. 


But  Brother  Viner  was  also  an  intelli 
gent  man,  and  perfectly  conscious  of 
the  relative  fitness  of  things.  How 
could  he  labor  with  her  concerning  her 
soul  ?  How  could  he  appeal  to  her, 
with  pathetic  tones  and  tears,  to  for 
sake  her  sins  and  give  her  soul  to  her 
Saviour  ?  How  could  she  regard  him 
solely  as  a  spiritual  teacher,  now  that 
she  had  seen  him  there,  devouring,  with 
such  gusto,  such  quantities  of  food  ? 
Not  but  what  he  thought  that  he  had  a 
perfect  right  to  his  breakfast — as  good 
a  right  to  enjoy  it  as  any  other  man — 
but  not  to  such  a  breakfast.  In  his 
over-fed  condition,  there  was  something 
incongruous  in  passing  directly  from  th« 
feast  to  the  prayer-meeting,  to  pray  for 
a  girl  who,  in  her  white  frock  and  inno 
cent  face,  u  looked  like  a  lily  out  with 
nature."  At  least  thus  poetically  thought 
Brother  Viner,  notwithstanding  Mrs. 
Mallane's  account  of  her  wickedness 
still  remained  in  his  memory.  "  Why 
didn't  I  sit  down  under  a  tree,  and 
make  my  breakfast  from  a  bowl  of 
bread  and  milk,  in  true  pastoral  fash 
ion  ? "  he  asked  himself  in  tones  of 
self-disgust,  his  eyes  still  fixed  upon  the 
white  dress  and  sun-bonnet. 

At  this  time  Eirene's  attention  was 
called  away  from  the  young  minis 
ter  by  a  rustic  young  convert,  who,  in 
his  new-born  spiritual  joy,  was  oblivi 
ous  of  breakfast  and  of  all  human  want. 
Spying  Eirene  standing  alone,  he  imme 
diately  came  to  the  conclusion  that  she 
was  "  a  sinner,"  and  not  "  a  sister ;  " 
therefore,  a  proper  subject  for  mission 
ary  zeal.  He  walked  up  to  her,  and, 
without  a  single  preliminary,  asked, 
"  Do  you  love  the  Lord  ?  " 

Eirene,  startled  by  the  abrupt  ques 
tion,  saw  before  her  a  lank,  long-haired 
youth,  the  exact  counterpart  of  Moses 
Loplolly.  Had  that  young  man  of 
peddling  propensities  concluded  to 
study  for  the  Christian  ministry  ? 

"  Do  you  love  the  Lord  ? "  was  the 
solemn  question  again  propounded  to 
the  wondering  girl. 

"  I  hope  I  do,"  was  the  timid  answer. 

"  You  hope  you  do  I  "  [In  a  tone  of 
deep  disgust.]  "  You  hope  you  do  J 


70 


EIEENE : 


Do  you  hope  yer  love  yer  father  and 
mother  ?  No  1  Ef  yer  love  ura,  yer 
know  yer  luv  ura.  Yer  don't  hope 
nuthin'  'bout  it.  Yer  know  it  [tones 
rising].  So,  ef  yer  love  the  Lord,  yer 
know  it.  Ef  yer  only  hope  yer  love 
Him,  'tain't  no  luv  'fall.  Yer  goin' 
down  the  road  to  perdition,  straight. 
[In  a  milder  tone.]  Don't  yer  want 
religion  ?  " 

•'  Yes  ;  I  have  wanted  to  be  a  Chris 
tian  ever  since  I  can  remember,"  an 
swered  Eirene. 

"  How  bad  do  you  want  to  be  one  ? 
Bad  enuf  to  give  up  all  yer  pride,  and 
confess  yer  sins  ?  " 

"  I  hope  so." 

"  Hope !  agin  [in  tones  of  despair]. 
I  can  try  yer  hope  in  a  minnit.  Do  you 
•want  religion  bad  enuf  to  enable  yer 
pride  to  get  it  ?  Then  yer  willin'  to 
kneel  down  on  this  very  spot,  and  let 
me  pray  fur  yer  soul.  Will  yer  do  it  ? " 

"  Oh,  not  here,  please  ! "  said  Eirene 
in  a  tone  of  entreaty,  with  the  instinct 
ive  shrinking  from  publicity  which  was 
natural  to  her. 

"  Now  where's  yer  hope  ?  [In  a  tone 
of  triumph.]  It  don't  amount  to  nuth 
in'.  But  I'll  pray  fur  yer  jest  the  same ; 
there's  them  that's  brought  into  the 
kingdom  of  heaven  by  force.  I'll  pray 
fur  yer  jest  the  same  "  [with  profound 
spiritual  condescension].  Thus  the 
youth  knelt  down  and  lifted  up  his 
voice  in  prayer.  The  sound  immediate 
ly  attracted  the  attention  of  the  sisters 
who  had  gathered  around  Tilda;  when 
they  turned,  and  saw  Eirene  leaning 
against  the  tree,  with  her  head  bowed, 
as  if  overcome  by  some  emotion,  and 
the  young  evangelist  kneeling  before 
her,  calling  upon  God  to  have  mercy 
upon  her  soul,  Tilda  believed  that  her 
dearest  wish  was  about  to  be  realized 
— that  her  friend,  struck  with  convic 
tion  the  moment  she  reached  the  camp 
ground,  was  uow  to  be  converted.  She, 
with  the  other  sisters,  hastened  to  the 
spot,  and,  immediately  kneeling  down, 
formed  a  circle  outside  the  evangelist, 
with  Eirene,  leaning  against  the  tree, 
the  central  figure.  Joining  the  youth, 
all  commenced  ejaculating  and  praying 


together ;  thus  a  special  prayer-meeting 
was  at  once  inaugurated.  "  Oh,  do, 
Lord!"  "Yes, Lord!"  "Come, Lord!" 
"  O,  blessed  Jesus,  speak  peace  to  her 
soul  "  "  O  Christ,  forgive  her  sins  !  " 
"  O  God,  show  her  her  wickedness ! " 
These  were  the  expressions,  in  every 
possible  tone,  producing  one  wild  dis 
cord  of  supplication,  which  now  smote 
the  ears  of  the  bewildered  Eirene.  Each 
communicated  excitement  to  the  other  : 
every  moment  the  cries  grew  louder,  the 
groans  c  /eper,  the  entreaty  more  impor 
tunate,  till,  at  last,  overcome  by  pure 
nervous  excitement,  Eirene  sank  upon 
her  knees,  sobbing  as  if  her  heart  would 
break.  This  prostration  was  the  signal 
for  a  still  more  clamorous  outbreak. 
Cries  of  "  Lord,  have  mercy  on  this 
poor  girl !  "  "  O  Lord,  save  Eirene 
Vale  !  "  rent  the  air  with  a  perfect  tor 
nado  of  sound. 

This  scene  was  witnessed  by  one  per 
son  with  extreme  displeasure.  It  was 
Brother  Viner,  who  had  left  the  break 
fast-table,  notwithstanding  the  entreat 
ies  of  the  sisters,  and  seated  himself 
within  the  Busyville  tent.  He  was  an 
ardent  lover  of  Methodism ;  his  mother, 
a  saint  of  the  Mrs.  Fletcher  type,  had 
nurtured  him  in  the  love  of  its  memo 
ries  and  in  devotion  to  its  principles. 
In  his  inmost  heart  he  believed  that  the 
vitality  and  zeal  of  his  sect  was  the  salt 
of  the  Christian  world.  But  he  was  too 
intelligent  to  believe  that  zeal  born  of 
ignorance  was  as  worthy  as  that  tem 
pered  by  knowledge.  While  believing 
it  to  be  a  necessity  to  some,  he  was  so 
gentle  a  gentleman  himself,  he  could  no 
more  be  boisterous  in  sacred  worship 
than  he  could  be  loud  and  vulgar  in  the 
expression  of  any  sentiment  whatever. 
He  was  too  sensitive  to  the  nature  of 
others  not  to  see,  by  the  aspect  of  this 
girl,  that  she  was  more  overcome  by 
fear  and  grief  at  being  thus  assailed, 
than  by  any  conscious  conviction  of  sin. 
"  She  would  make  a  lovely  Christian,  I 
know,"  he  said  to  himself;  ''we  need 
more  such  women  in  our  church.  She 
must  not  be  repelled  and  driven  from 
us  by  a  repulsive  manner  of  approach." 
Yet,  as  he  looked,  he  saw  some  of  his 


A  WOMAN'S  RIGHT. 


71 


young  converts  and  some  of  his  most 
zealous  members  in  this  praying  circle, 
and  knew  well  that,  if  he  were  to  mani 
fest  any  disapprobation  of  their  meet 
ing,  he  could  not,  by  any  possibility, 
explain  to  their  satisfaction  such  a 
course.  Such  a  procedure,  he  knew, 
•would  bring  them  to  the  sudden  conclu 
sion  that  their  minister  had  '•  backslid 
den."  Yet,  as  their  minister,  he  must 
either  join  their  circle,  or  break  it ;  he 
concluded  to  do  the  latter.  The  first 
season  of  prayer  was  over ;  they  re 
freshed  their  fearfully-taxed  energies  by 
singing  a  hymn,  and  were  beginning 
their  cries  anew,  when  Brother  Viner 
walked  quietly  up  to  their  circle,  and 
said,  "  Brothers  and  sisters,  we  must  do 
all  things  decently  and  in  order.  I  un 
derstand  your  feelings.  You  are  so 
happy  in  prayer,  and  so  moved  for  the 
salvation  of  souls,  that  you  wish  to 
pray  continually.  This  you  may  do. 
You  may  lift  your  hearts  silently  to  God 
without  ceasing.  But  some  of  you  have 
ridden  many  miles  this  morning.  You 
all  need  your  breakfast.  After  you  have 
refreshed  yourselves,  come  to  the  pray 
er-meeting  in  the  tent,  at  eight  o'clock." 
Their  minister  had  said  it.  They  must 
go  to  breakfast,  notwithstanding  this 
precious  soul  was  not  yet  saved.  They 
did  so,  all  shaking  hands  with  their 
minister  as  they  passed,  till  no  one  was 
left  with  him  but  Tilda  Stade,  standing 
by  Eirene.  As  Eirene  rose  from  the 
foot  of  the  tree  where  she  had  knelt, 
she  seemed  like  one  coming  out  of  a 
dream.  She  opened  her  eyes,  still  glis 
tening  with  tears,  and  drew  a  deep 
breath  of  relief.  Tilda  thought  it  the 
sigh  of  conviction — a  hopeful  sigh — 
and  hastened  to  introduce  Eirene  to  her 
minister.  This  good  woman  had  not 
the  acute  perception  which  announces 
instantaneously  to  its  possessor  when  he 
or  she  may  not  be  wanted.  As  Eirene's 
special  protector  and  spiritual  guide, 
she  waited  to  hear  what  the  minister 
had  to  say  to  her.  Great  was  her 
amazement  when  he  said,  "  Sister  Stade, 
will  you  be  so  kind  as  to  allow  me  to 
say  a  few  words  to  this  young  lady 
alone  '{  "  What  Brother  Viuer  could 


have  to  say  to  Eirene  "  alone,"  was 
more  than  she  could  divine  ;  neverthe 
less,  as  it  was  her  minister — not  Paul 
Mallane — who  made  the  request,  she 
passed  on.  Then  Brother  Viner  ad 
dressed  Eirene  for  the  first  time,  by  ask 
ing  her  if  she  had  been  educated  a 
Methodist.  She  told  him  no.  "  Then," 
he  said,  "  our  manner  of  worship  may 
seem  strange,  even  rude,  to  you.  But 
do  not  let  our  ways  disturb  you,  for 
they  are  only  outward  forms  of  expres 
sion.  In  every  human  heart,  religion 
can  be  but  one  essence — that  of  love  to 
Christ  and  love  to  one  another.  If  you 
feel  your  soul  pervaded  with  this  love, 
you  are  a  Christian.  The  personal 
manifestations  of  religious  joy  differ  as 
much  as  our  natures  differ.  No  two 
persons  give  expression  in  precisely  the 
same  terms  to  any  human  experience ; 
the  law  of  temperament  forbids  it. 
Therefore  do  not  be  offended  at  the  zeal 
which  you  see  manifested  here,  even  if 
it  seems  to  you  a  little  intemperate. 
And  do  not  be  discouraged  if  you  your 
self  feel  prompted  to  display  none  of 
this  outward  fervor.  Without  any  ref 
erence  to  any  other  human  being,  re 
ceive  the  Spirit  of  God  as  it  comes  to 
you.  Receive  it  as  if  you  were  alone 
with  God  in  His  universe.  It  can  come 
to  you  only  in  accordance  with  your 
nature ;  you  can  respond  to  it  only  in 
the  same  way. 

"  Do  you  hear,  in  your  inmost  heart, 
the  still  small  voice  calling  you  to  fol 
low  your  Saviour  ? — to  cast  your  burden 
on  Him  ? — to  love  Him  ? — to  be  like 
Him  ? " 

"  Oh,  yes,  sir ;  I  have  always  heard 
it." 

"  Do  you  try  to  resist  it,  or  do  you 
seek  to  obey  it  ?  " 

"  I  seek  to  obey  it,  and  it  is  my  dear 
est  comfort.  It  cheers  me  when  I  am 
sad,  and  it  strengthens  me  when  I  am 
weak." 

"  And  you  give  your  heart  to  God  ?  " 

"  Yes,  sir.  Every  day  I  give  myself 
anew  to  Him.  Am  I  not  safe  in  His 
love  ? " 

"  My  sister,  I  feel  that  you  are  a 
Christian.  What  you  need  is  encour- 


73 


ElE2NE : 


agement,  not  conviction  or  loud  expres 
sion.  I  see  how  it  is.  You  have  a  gen 
tle  nature  ;  your  religion  is  as  gentle  as 
your  heart.  Coine  into  the  eight-o'clock 
prayer-meeting,  and  I  will  see  that  you 
are  not  again  disturbed.  Now,  shall  I 
go  with  you  to  the  breakfast-table  ?  " 

His  voice  was  so  kind  and  assuring, 
his  words  so  helpful,  that,  when  he  had 
finished,  E Irene  felt  like  another  crea 
ture.  With  the  elasticity  which  be 
longs  to  the  quickest  sensibilities,  her 
heart  leaped  to  her  eyes  in  a  joyous 
smile,  as  she  exclaimed,  "  Oh,  I  feel  so 
much  better  !  " 

As  Brother  Viner  saw  this  inward 
illumination  spread  over  every  feature, 
he  thought  it  not  only  the  most  inno 
cent,  but  the  brightest  face  that  he  had 
-ever  seen  ;  but  he  only  said,  "  Now  we 
will  find  Sister  Stade." 

This  young  woman  was  standing  de 
voutly  before  a  bowl  of  blueberries  and 
milk,  as  Brother  Viner  led  Eirene  up  to 
her  side.  When  she  saw  the  serene 
light  which  covered  both  faces,  she  was 
forced  to  the  conclusion  that  their  con 
versation  had  been  of  a  heavenly  sort, 
although  she  had  not  been  permitted  to 
listen  to  it.  She  received  her  charge 
back  with  much  demonstration,  while 
Brother  Viner  returned  to  his  seat  in 
the  tent,  to  meditate  and  prepare  for 
the  morning  prayer-meeting.  He  did 
not  find  it  as  easy  as  usual  to  fix  his 
inind  on  the  chapter  in  the  Bible  and 
the  hymn  which  he  was  selecting ;  in 
voluntarily  his  eyes  wandered  back  to 
the  breakfast-table  under  the  trees,  and 
rested  on  the  slight  figure  in  the  white 
frock  standing  by  Tilda  Stade.  He 
had  forgotten  all  about  Sister  Mullane's 
lamentations  over  this  girl's  wickedness, 
and  thought  only  of  her  face,  all  radi 
ant  as  it  looked  up  to  his  last.  "  She 
has  just  the  face  that  would  please 
mother,"  he  said  to  himself;  "  and,  if  I 
am  not  mistaken,  she  has  just  the  na 
ture  that  would  please  mother.  What 
a  companion  she  would  make  for  her  1 
for  mother  will  come  and  live  with  me." 
Then,  suddenly  conscious  that  he  had 
arrived  at  very  rapid  conclusions,  con 
sidering  his  very  slight  knowledge  of 


this  young  lady,  he  turned  his  back  and 
commenced  searching  for  hymns  with 
redoubled  assiduity,  selecting,  at  last, 
"  Jesus,  lover  of  my  soul,"  "  Rock  of 
Ages,  cleft  for  me,"  and  others,  whose 
sweetness,  purity,  and  divine  fervor  lift 
them  so  far  above  the  rampant  rhymes 
sometimes  called  camp-meeting  hymns. 
After  breakfast,  the  brethren  and  sisters 
gathered  in  the  tent,  some  sitting  on 
benches,  some  in  the  clean  straw  which 
covered  the  ground,  some  on  piles  of 
bedding  on  which  many  had  slept  the 
night  before.  Brother  Viner  offered 
Tilda  and  Eirene  a  seat  in  a  corner, 
where  it  was  impossible  that  a  crowd 
should  gather  around  them,  as  they  had 
done  outside.  He  opened  the  meeting 
with  the  hymn  which  all  young  people 
love: 

"Jesus,  lover  of  my  soul, 
Let  me  to  thy  bosom  fly." 

His  pure  tenor-voice  gave  all  its  sweet 
ness  to  the  singing.  Eirene  did  not 
listen ;  she  worshipped.  Every  pulse 
in  her  heart  sung  with  rapture  the 
matchless  lyric  of  the  Methodist  poet. 
Brother  Viner  followed  with  prayer, 
and,  as  he1  prayed,  utter  silence  pervaded 
the  tent,  broken  only  by  low-murmured 
"  Amens."  In  the  fervor  of  his  youth, 
in  the  fulness  of  his  faith,  he  prayed,  as 
if  he  knelt  face  to  face  with  his  Lord. 
He  said,  "  We  rejoice  to  come  to  Thee 
with  all  the  freedom  of  favored  chil 
dren — with  all  the  sweet  familiarity  of 
love,  openly  and  joyously."  He  prayed 
that  to  all  might  be  granted  a  clearer 
vision  to  discern  the  exceeding  loveli 
ness  of  Christ — a  deeper  consciousness 
of  their  need  of  Him,  who  was  at  once 
their  Friend  and  Saviour.  He  prayed 
for  "  sinners  and  seekers,"  and  at  last 
for  one  whose  feet  trembled  in  the  nar 
row  way,  but  whose  heart  yearned  to 
ward  all  pure  and  lovely  things.  He 
prayed  that  to  the  young  heart  might 
be  granted  strength  to  cast  aside  every 
weight,  every  besetting  sin,  every  allure 
ment  of  the  world ;  that  this  young  soul 
might  run  with  patience  and  cheerful 
alacrity  the  whole  Christian  course,  and 
receive  the  clear  witness  of  its  accept 
ance  and  fellowship  with  Christ.  Ei- 


A  WOMAN'S  RIGHT. 


73 


rene  felt  that  this  prayer  was  for  her ; 
it  was  the  very  prayer  that  she  would 
liave  offered  for  herself,  yet  prayed  with 
an  unction  and  a  fervor  wrhich  she  felt 
her  own  prayers  had  not.  There  was  an 
earnestness,  an  assurance  of  faith  in  the 
tones  which  strengthened  and  helped 
her.  As  her  heart  *ascended  with  it,  a 
deep  peace  came  down  into  her  soul— a 
peace  so  pervading  that  none  of  the 
discord  which  came  after  had  the 
slightest  power  to  disturb,  it.  Brother 
Viner,  a  true  Methodist,  believed"  that 
where  the  Spirit  of  God  is,  there  is  lib 
erty.  Thus,  aside  from  the  general 
supervision  of  the  prayer-meeting,  he 
did  not  attempt  to  control  the  boister 
ous  element  around  him.  Thus  the 
meeting  did  not  advance  very  far  before 
men  and  women  were  praying,  groan 
ing,  and  singing  together.  Some  were 
groaning  for  their  sins,  some  praying 
for  their  companions,  othters  singing 
and  shouting  because  they  themselves 
felt  happy.  Among  the  latter  was  Tilda 
Stade.  She  shouted  "  Hallelujah  "  till 
she  had  "  the  power,"  or,  in  more  in 
telligible  language,  swooned  from  pure 
physical  exhaustion ;  falling  back,  her 
head  dropped  into  Eirene's  lap.  Eirene 
was  less  alarmed  than  she  would  have 
been  if  she  had  not  already  seen  several 
others  drop  in  the  same  way.  She  tried 
to  lift  her  friend's  head,  and  support  it, 
when  Tilda,  opening  her  eyes,  uttered 
the  piercing  cry  of  "  Glory,"  falling 
again  ;  whereupon  Eirene  let  the  head 
rest,  where  it  fell,  •  till  the  meeting 
closed.  The  brothers  and  sisters,  who 
had  formed  themselves  into  the  special 
Praying  Band,  seeing  the  peaceful  ex 
pression  of  Eirene"'s  countenance,  con 
cluded  that  she  had  received  the  bless 
ing,  and  at  last  began  to  importune  her 
to  tell  what  the  Lord  had  done  for  her 
soul.  She  was  beginning  to  tremble 
with  something  of  her  first  fear  and  ex 
citement,  when  Brother  Viner  again 
came  to  her  help.  He  told  the  Praying 
Band  that  he  had  conversed  with  this 
sister,  and  believed  that  she  had  re 
ceived  in  her  heart  the  witness  of  the 
Holy  Spirit,  hut  that  they  must  remem 
ber  tli.:t,  while  the  fruits  of  the  Spirit 


were  always  the  same,  its  personal  mani 
festations  were  very  different ;  that  in 
some  it  bore  witness  by  the  very  ex 
pression  of  the  face,  in  perfect  silence ; 
that  it  was  not  this  sister's  duty  to 
speak  openly,  unless  she  felt  moved  to 
do  so  from  within.  This  form  of  con 
version  was  by  no  means  the  most  satis 
factory  to  the  Praying  Band  ;  but,  as 
their  minister  sanctioned  it,  they  felt 
bound  to  accept  it.  Those  who  knew 
her  personally  went  forth  from  the 
prayer-meeting  and  announced  to  all 
the  Busyville  brethren  outside  that  Ei 
rene  Vale  had  "  experienced  religion, 
and  received  the  blessing ; "  but  they 
thought  it  pretty  queer  that  she  wouldn't 
speak.  With  a  feeling  of  inexpressible 
relief  Eirene  walked  forth  from  the  tent 
to  attend  the  morning  service  in  the 
grove.  The  mode  of  worship  in  the 
prayer-meeting  had  been  sincere ;  she 
believed  that,  yet  she  could  feel  none 
the  less  that  it  was  discordant  with  her 
feelings,  and  outraged  many  of  her 
ideas  of  what  was  harmonious  and  fit 
in  sacred  worship.  But  the  public  ser 
vice  in  the  grove  seemed  a  complete 
realization  of  all  that  such  worship 
should  be.  Out  from  their  tents  came 
the  great  congregation,  and  took  their 
seats  in  God's  sanctuary.  His  own 
power  had  reared  the  columns  of  this 
mighty  cathedral.  Along  its  high  leaf- 
woven  dome  soft  winds  rippled.  In  its 
verdurous  arches  birds  sang ;  from  its 
mossy  floors  flowers  sent  up  their  praise 
inperpetua  perfume.  When  the  preach 
er  stood  up  in  the  rude  pulpit  beneath 
two  patriarchal  elms,  and  invoked  the 
blessing  of  God  on  the  vast  assembly ; 
when  more  than  a  thousand  human  voi 
ces  joined  the  winds,  the  birds,  and  the 
blossoms,  singing, 

"  There  seems  a  voice  in  every  gale, 

A  tongue  in  every  flower, 
Which  tells,  O  Lord,  the  wondrous  tale 
Of  thy  Almighty  power,'1 

Eirene  beheld,  at  last,  in  its  perfect 
tform,  the  wonderful  charm  and  devo 
tional    significance    of   the    Methodist  .; 
camp- meeting. 

In  the  afternoon  Brother  Viner  preach 
ed  an  earnest,  dramatic,  magnetic  ser- 


74 


raon,  whose  fervor  and  power  astonish 
ed  his  own  congregation,  and  electrified 
all.  Brother  Viner  was  a  good  man, 
besides  being  a  young  man  of  decided 
talents ;  and  under  any  circumstance, 
with  such  a  congregation  before  him, 
would  have  preached  more  than  a  com 
mon  sermon.  How  much  added  inspi 
ration  and  unction  he  received  from  the 
consciousness  of  a  single  presence,  from 
the  gleam  of  a  white  frock,  and  the 
glimpse  of  a  golden-brown  head,  lean 
ing  against  the  rough  bark  of  a  tree — 
with  a  sweet,  serious  face  looking  forth 
toward  his,  which  seemed  to  him  sin 
gled  and  separated  from  all  that  vast 
congregation — Brother  Viner  did  not 
know,  nor  did  any  body  else.  Eirene,  like 
all  persons  of  very  sensitive  organization, 
took  in  joy  as  well  as  suffering  through 
every  nerve.  Every  leaf  that  rippled, 
every  bird  that  sang,  every  flower  dis 
tilling  incense,  every  breeze,  sailing  by 
laden  with  the  honey  of  the  pines, 
added  something  to  this  large  delight. 
So,  too,  did  the  anthem,  the  prayer, 
now  the  sermon.  True,  holy,  helpful 
words  were  these  of  Brother  Viner,  full 
of  the  vitality  of  human  life,  piercing 
to  the  depth  of  human  experience,  and 
reaching  upward  to  the  height  of  all 
Christian  aspiration ;  few  could  listen 
and  not  receive  from  them  somewhat  of 
the  help  that  they  needed.  Eirene  no 
longer  wondered  that  Tilda  found  the 
camp-meeting  such  a  sanctuary  of  joy 
— this  portion  of  camp-meeting,  cer 
tainly,  was  very  delightful.  Eirene  no 
longer  thought  of  the  young  evangelist, 
of  the  extempore  prayer-meeting,  or  of 
any  annoyance,  any  more  than  Brother 
Viner  thought  of  his  morning  vexation 
amid  the  spiritual  and  oratorical  exalta 
tion  in  which  he  now  stood,  with 
which  indigestible  breakfasts  intermed 
dled  not. 

The  morning  and  afternoon  service, 
even  the  evening  prayer-meetings,  were 
ended,  and  yet  the  congregation  once 
more  gathered  beneath  the  trees  to  lis* 
ten  to  a  third  sermon,  before  going  to 
rest.  Eirene  was  tired.  During  the 
day  she  had  experienced  so  many  new 
sensations — had  been  so  overcome  and 


pervaded  by  them,  it  seemed  to  her 
that  she  could  take  in  no  more.  Thus, 
when  the  brethren  and  sisters  went  out 
in  a  body  to  the  evening  service,  she, 
with  a  few  aged  mothers  in  Israel,  re 
mained  behind  in  sole  possession  of  the 
tent.  Placing  a  camp-stool  just  outside 
the  curtain,  she  sat  down  to  listen, 
where  she  was.  The  scene  upon  which 
she  now  looked  forth  was  even  more 
picturesque  and  impressive  than  that  of 
the  day.  The  many  lamps,  hung  to  the 
swaying  boughs  of  the  trees,  threw  long 
lines  of  flickering  light  and  shadow 
upon  the  great  congregation  seated  be 
neath.  The  wavering  lights  on  the 
pulpit,  the  dipping  branches  of  the 
elms  above  their  heads,  gave  a  weird 
look  to  the  faces  of  the  preachers,  while 
the  prayers  that  they  uttered,  and  the 
hymns  which  they  sung,  softened  by 
the  slight  distance,  floated  out  through 
the  evening  air  to  the  few  listeners  in 
the  tent  with  a  strange  and  sweet  so 
lemnity. 

Perhaps  it  was  a  desire  to  hear  more 
distinctly  the  words  of  the  sermon,  or 
perhaps  it  was  the  wonderful  beauty 
of  the  night  trembling  down  to  her 
through  the  forest-trees,  which  after  a 
time  allured  Eirene  to  leave  the  little 
camp-stool  and  step  out  into  the  air. 
She  walked  a  few  paces  from  the  tent 
and  leaned  against  the  tree  where,  in 
the  morning,  she  had  been  attacked  and 
prayed  for  by  the  young  evangelist. 
The  words  of  the  preacher  came  dis 
tinctly  to  her  ear,  and  with  them  blend 
ed  the  scattered  moans  and  amens  of 
the  congregation.  She  listened  a  few 
moments ;  then,  looking  back  to  the 
green  inclosure  beside  the  tent,  she  felt 
the  old  impulse  to  wander  out,  as  she 
used  to  do  in  the  woods  at  home.  Since 
her  coming  this  was  the  first  moment 
that  she  had  been  alone  with  herself. 
True  darling  of  nature,  the  old  charm 
of  freedom,  the  old  spell  of  the  woods, 
was  on  her.  Still  the  preacher's  voice, 
and  the  amens  of  the  congregation, 
came  to  her  ear,  and  yet  she  heard  them 
not.  The  very  leaves  of  the  trees  seem 
ed  to  turn  toward  her,  whispering  to 
her  to  come,  as  she  turned  and  walked 


A  WOMAN'?  RIGHT. 


75 


slowly  out  over  the  trodden  grass. 
Presently  she  came  to  high  banks  of 
ferns,  which  no  camp-fires  had  reached 
and  no  feet  had  crushed,  walling  her  in 
and  pervading  the  air  with  fragrance. 
She  paused  under  a  tree  with  low-bend 
ing  boughs,  and  listened.  Sne  heard 
the  birds  stirring  in  their  nests, — the 
tiny  chirp  of  the  mother-birds  soothing 
their  broods ;  but  otherwise  the  little 
choristers  of  love  were  still.  She  lis 
tened  to  the  clear  cry  of  the  katy-dids 
in  the  branches  high  over  her  head,  and 
to  the  slender  horn  of  the  crickets 
piping  in  the  grass.  She  heard  the 
hum  of  insect-folk — the  murmuring  na 
tives  of  the  summer  air  all  a-thrill  with 
life  and  love,  stirring,  with  their  low, 
pervading  music,  the  wide  realms  of 
silence.  Storms  gone  by  had  given  the 
night-air  that  pure  rare  quality  which 
makes  the  August  of  New  England  the 
most  delicious  month  of  the  year.  Ei- 
rene  leaned  her  head  against  the  old 
tree,  and  looked  up  through  its  um 
brage  to  the  sky,  conscious  of  nothing 
but  utter  content.  She  only  knew  that 
she  was  happy,  and  did  not  question 
wherefore.  Too  young  to  analyze  emo 
tion,  too  innocent  to  dream  of  ill,  she 
took  in,  through  soul  and  sense,  the  ex 
ceeding  beauty  of  God's  world,  and 
was  glad.  How  could  she  know — this 
girl-woman — that  she  had  come  there 
to  meet  her  fate.  How  could  she, 
whose  heart  had  never  known  another 
love  than  that  of  child  and  sister,  know 
that  even  now  her  feet  trembled  on  that 
perilous  border-land  of  passion,  from 
which,  once  touched,  there  is  no  retreat. 

A  quick  rustle  of  leaves,  a  stir  in  the 
air,  a  consciousness  of  a  second  pres 
ence,  came  to  her  together.  She  start 
ed  ;  and  that  instant  a  squirrel  jumped 
through  a  mesh  of  leaves  near  her  feet, 
and  began  to  scamper  up  an  adjoining 
tree. 

"  Bun,  was  it  you  ?  "  she  asked,  with 
a  low  laugh. 

"  Bun,  it  is  time  to  go  to  bed ;  "  and, 
again  leaning  her  head  against  the 
rough  bark  of  the  tree,  she  watched 
Bun  as  he  went  jumping  to  the  very 
top  of  his  green  ladder.  Yet  she  only 


did  so  for  a  moment,  when  a  sound — a 
sound  of  positive  steps — not  still  and 
stealthy,  but  light,  quick,  eager  steps, 
she  heard  approaching  very  near  to 
her.  From  what  direction — the  foliage 
was  so  dense — she  did  not  see,  nor  did 
she  wait  to  do  so.  For  the  first  time 
conscious  that  she  was  alone,  and  at 
some  distance  from  the  tent,  she  was 
alarmed,  and  started  from  her  leafy 
thicket  to  retrace  her  steps.  She  had 
not  taken  two  when  a  long  shadow  fell 
across  the  grass  before  her,  and  she 
heard  her  name  spoken  in  slightly 
tremulous  yet  assuring  tones.  She  turn 
ed,  and  there,  just  dividing  the  walls  of 
fern,  almost  at  her  side,  stood  Paul 
Mallane. 

"  Don't  be  alarmed.  Don't  go  away, 
I  beg  of  you,  Miss  Vale.  Pardon  me, 
if  I  intrude — and  I  know  that  I  do — 
yet  you  will  be  doing  me  the  greatest 
kindness  if  you  will  remain  for  a  mo 
ment  ;  then  I  will  escort  you  back  to 
the  tent." 

No  human  being  could  doubt  the  sin 
cerity  of  his  words,  uttered  in  such 
tones  of  anxiety  and  entreaty.  Eirene, 
frightened  by  his  sudden  and  unac 
countable  appearance,  could  think  of 
nothing  but  that  he  must  be  the  bearer 
of  some  unexpected  and  imperative 
message  to  herself,  exclaimed,  "  What 
has  happened,  Mr.  Mallane  ?  Have 
they  sent  for  me  from  Hilltop  ?  Oh, 
tell  me  what  it  is  I  How  kind  of  you 
to  come  !  "  Already  her  affectionate 
heart  and  excited  imagination  had  leap 
ed  to  the  conclusion  that  some  misfor 
tune  had  befallen  the  loved  inmates  of 
the  dormer  cottage. 

"  Nothing  has  happened  at  Hilltop 
which  has  sent  me  after  you,  Miss  Vale," 
answered  Paul,  in  tones  which  he  tried 
to  make  calm  and  soothing.  "  Nothing 
has  happened,  and  yet  I  have  come 
here  on  purpose  to  see  you.  I  have 
been  here  all  day.  I  don't  care  a  fig 
for  the  camp-meeting — though  Viner's 
sermon,  this  afternoon,  was  really  a 
model  of  oratory.  I  came  here  on  pur 
pose  to  speak  with  you.  Don't  look 
frightened.  Don't  think  me  rude  if  I 
am  abrupt.  I  have  waited  so  long,  I 


76 


EIBBKB: 


have  wanted  so  much  to  speak  with 
you,  I  can't  stop  now  for  preliminaries 
or  conventionalities.  It  is  now  nearly 
a  year  since  I  saw  you  first.  All  this 
time  I  have  been  trying  to  forget  you. 
f  he  result  has  been  that  I  have  thought 
of  you  twice  as  much  as  if  I  had  not 
tried  to  put  you  out  of  my  mind.  I 
knew  that  I  had  no  right  to  intrude 
upon  you,  and  yet  I  could  not  refrain 
from  sending  you  those  pictures,  as 
tokens  of  my  remembrance,  and  the 
magazines,  hoping  that  they  might 
brighten  your  life  a  very  little.  Did 
you  receive  them  ?  " 

"  Yes,  and  thank  you  for  them  so 
much,"  said  Eirene.  "  I  cannot  tell  you 
the  pleasure  they  have  given  me." 

"  I  am  glad  of  that,"  replied  Paul, 
with  an  expression  of  intense  gratifica 
tion.  "  That  was  all  I  sent  them  for, 
— not  as  advances  toward  acquaintance. 
Indeed,  I  came  home  yesterday  with  no 
definite  expectation  of  finding  myself 
any  better  acquainted  with  you  at  the 
close  of  this  vacation  than  when  I  went 
back  last  autumn.  But  when  I  found 
that  you  were  gone,  I  felt  so  angry  at 
the  thought  of  the  unkindness  which 
you  had  endured,  I  resolved  that  I 
would  see  you,  and  tell  you  that  I,  at 
least,  have  lifted  my  voice  against  the 
unjust  persecution  which  followed  you 
during  all  your  stay  in  my  father's 
house." 

At  these  words  a  look  of  pain  and 
of  entreaty  catne  into  Eirene's  eyes. 
Paul  saw  at  a  glance  that  whatever  her 
life  had  been  in  his  father's  house,  she 
could  not  talk  of  it. 

"  But  that  is  not  all  I  wished  to  say 
to  you,"  he  hastened  to  add.  "  For 
months  I  have  wanted  to  tell  you  what 
you  have  done  for  me,  and  what  you 
can  do  for  me,  if  you  only  will.  Very 
likely,  if  I  had  found  you  still  in  our 
house,  I  might  have  refrained  from  tell 
ing  you.  But  when  I  saw  that  you 
were  gone,  I  felt  more  than  disappoint 
ed — I  felt  ill-tempered — for  I  knew  that 
you  had  been  really  driven  away  by  un 
kindness.  Then  I  made  up  my  mind  to 
let  you  know  what  you  had  done  for 
me,  and  that  I  was  your  true  friend.  I 


saw  you  when  you  started  for  camp- 
meeting  this  morning ;  till  then  I  had 
not  a  thought  of  goiiw.  But  it  oc 
curred  to  me  that  here  would  be  a  ffood 
place  to  tell  you  what  has  been  so  long 
in  my  mind ;  and  I  should  have  told 
you,  before  I  left  to-night,  though  it 
had  been  in  the  presence  of  all  those 
pious  old  ladies  in  the  tent,  who  would 
have  gone  back  and  published  it  to  all 
Busyville  to-morrow.  It  is  due  to  you 
to  know  what  you  have  done  for  me." 

"  What  I  have  done  for  you,"  slowly 
said  Eirene,  iu  astonishment.  "  Why, 
Mr.  Mallaue,  I  have  never  been  able  to 
do  any  thing  for  any  one  in  all  my  life, 
except  for  those  at  home,  and  very  little 
for  them.  What  could  I  do  for  you  ?  " 

"  I  will  tell  you  what  you  have  done." 
said  Paul,  reverently.  "  You  have  made 
all  women  more  sacred  iu  my  eyes.  It 
is  not  your  fault  if  you  have  not  made 
me  a  better  man.  I  think  of  you  all 
the  time  ;  more  than  of  all  other  human 
beings  put  together.  When  I  have  re 
membered  you,  studying  alone  in  your 
cold  little  room,  I  have  been  ashamed 
of  my  own  indolence  beside  my  warm 
fire.  When  I  have  thought  of  you,  so 
young  and  tender,  working  hard  with 
your  hands  for  others,  I  have  been 
ashamed  of  my  own  selfishness.  When 
I  have  thought  of  your  innocence,  I 
have  been  ashamed  of  my  own  wicked 
thoughts  and  evil  ways.  For,  if  any 
one  has  told  you  that  I  am  not  a  very 
good  fellow,  they  have  told  you  the 
truth.  I  am  not.  But  if  any  one  can 
improve  me,  you  can." 

"  You  make  me  feel  very  much 
ashamed,"  said  Eirene.  "  I  never  feel 
certain  that  any  thing  I  do  is  the  very 
best  thing  to  be  done.  I  am  always 
afraid  that  I  might  do  better.  I  can't 
tell  you,  Mr.  Mallane,  how  very  uncer 
tain  I  feel.  But  it  will  make  me  very 
happy  to  think  that  I  may  be  of  service 
to  you,  if  you  will  only  tell  me  how  I 
can  do  it." 

"  Why — if  you  will  only  take  a  little 
interest  in  me,"  said  Paul ;  "  if  you 
will  care  a  little  whether  I  am  good  or 
not,  or  happy  or  not.  In  short,  if  you 
won't  be  perfectly  indifferent  to  me ; 


A  WOMAN'*  EIGHT. 


77 


that  will  help  me.  1  can  tell  you  it 
will  be  a  great  incentive  to  try  to  do 
right,  if  I  know  that  you  care." 

"  But  I  do  care,  Mr.  Mallane.  I  have 
cared  ever  since — " 

"  Ever  since  when  ?  " 

"  Ever  since  Tilda  said — " 

"  What  did  Tilda  say  ?  " 

"  She  said,  Mr.  Mallane,  that  you 
were  not  quite  good." 

"  I  am  not  quite  good,"  said  Paul, 
penitently.  "  But,  then,  you  cared  !  " 
he  added,  with  a  quiver  of  delight  in 
his  voice. 

"  Yes,  I  cared  very  much.  Some  way, 
it  hurt  me  just  to  hear  it.  I  thought, 
for  the  sake  of  your  brothers  and  sis 
ters,  and  for  your  father's  and  mother's, 
who  are  so  proud  of  you,  that  you 
ought  to  be  very  noble,  Mr.  Mallane." 

"  You  did  !  I  ought  to  be  noble  for 
their  sakes  ?  Yes.  I  ought  to  be,  I 
suppose.  But  you  haven't  the  faintest 
idea  what  a  fight  it  is — the  world  tug 
ging  at  you  outside,  inside  the  devil. 
Why,  it  is  the  hardest  thing  on  earth 
for  a  man  to  do,  to  be  noble.  If  you 
were  only  in  the  world,  you  would 
know  it.  But  you  can't  know  it.  You 
see  it  as  you  find  it  in  good  books,  and 
in  your  own  heart.  But  if  you  care, 
I'll  try.  I'll  try  to  be  just  what  you 
would  like  me  to  be." 

Helena  Maynard  and  Bella  Prescott, 
could  they  have  heard  the  tones  in 
which  these  words  were  uttered,  would 
have  found  nothing  of  their  haughty 
Adonis  in  this  humble  youth.  But 
Paul  Mallane  was  by  no  means  the  first 
worldly  man  who  has  stood  contrite 
before  the  innocence  of  a  girl. 

"  You  have  promised  to  care,  to  take 
some  interest  in  me,"  he  went  on. 
"  Now,  if  you  will  promise  to  think  of 
me — under  all  circumstances  to  think 
of  me  as — as  your  friend,  it  is  all  that 
I  can  ask." 

It  was  not  in  eighteen  girlish  years, 
not  in  a  girl  with  such  a  guileless  and 
loving  heart,  to  look  up  to  the  face 
which  gazed  down  upon  hers,  quivering 
and  luminous  with  feeling,  full  of  en 
treaty,  at  once  manly  and  tender,  and, 
seeing  it,  to  say  that  she  did  not  want 


[/uch  a  friend.  No.  Her  heart  thrilled 
with  a  new  delight  as  it  asked,  how 
could  one  so  strong  and  radiant  for  a 
moment  need  her  sympathy,  or  pause, 
in  his  bright  life,  to  proffer  his  friend 
ship  ?  .Thus,  with  her  large  soft  gaze 
unconsciously  lifted  to  his,  she  said, 
"  I  am  sure  it  will  make  me  happy  to 
think  of  you  always  as  my  friend  ;  and 
it  will  make  my  life  seem  wider  and 
brighter  if  I  can  only  believe  that  I 
help  another." 

"  Help  another  !  You  can  make  me 
what  you  please,"  was  Paul's  passionate 
ejaculation. 

As  he  spoke,  the  first  lines  of  Charles 
Wesley's  inspired  hymn, 

"Love  divine,  all  love  excelling, 
Joy  of  heaven  to  earth  come  down," 

came  rolling  through  the  air  on  the  joy 
ful  voices  of  the  congregation.  Never 
could  it  have  sounded  more  expressive 
and  sacred  than  in  the  soft  air  of  that 
August  night ;  never  more  triumphant, 
as  in  great  waves  of  melody  it  rolled 
up  through  the  forest-trees.  Paul  was 
irreverent,  more  through  cultivation 
and  habit  than  from  nature.  This  mo 
ment  the  anthem  was  in  perfect  har 
mony  with  the  place  and  with  his  feel 
ings.  Now  the  mother  moon,  who  be 
fore  had  been  peering  through  the 
branches  of  the  trees,  sailed  forth  into 
the  open  space  of  sky,  and  looked  di 
rectly  down  into  these  children's  faces, 
as  if  to  see  them  and  listen  to  what 
they  were  saying.  They  stood  silent, 
listening.  The  hymn  ceased.  Words 
of  worship — a  strange  commingling  of 
religion,  devotion,  and  love — began  to 
surge  into  Paul's  very  throat  for  utter 
ance,  when  the  crackling  of  boughs, 
crushed  by  rapid  footsteps,  called  him 
suddenly  back  to  earth  and  to  his  senses. 
There,  rushing  through  the  branches 
broken  off  for  the  morning  fires,  Paul, 
to  his  dismay  and  anger,  beheld  Tilda 
Stade  coming  directly  toward  them. 
The  hymn,  which  had  just  filled  the  air 
with  such  joyful  peace,  had  closed  the 
evening  service.  The  moment  it  was 
ended  Tilda  hastened  to  the  tent — but 
to  find  Eirene  gone  from  the  camp-seat, 


78 


EIKEXE : 


where  she  had  left  her.  She  questioned 
one  of  the  mother  of  Israel,  and  the 
old  lady's  reply  was  by  no  means  satis 
factory  :  "  She  went  off  more'n  an  hour 
ago,  and  I  hain't  seen  nothin'  of  her 
sence."  Tilda,  who  considered  Eirene 
poetic,  or,  as  she  called  it,  "  childish," 
to  the  verge  of  irresponsibility,  thought 
now  that  she  had  gone  out  sky-gazing, 
but  was  prepared  for  nothing  worse. 
Imagine,  then,  the  shock  which  this 
worthy  young  woman  received,  when 
rushing  into  the  green  inclosure  back 
of  the  tent.  In  the  moonlight,  bright 
as  a  second  day,  she  beheld,  with  terri 
ble  distinctness,  this  child  of  her  care 
standing  under  a  wide-spreading  tree, 
and  by  her  side  an  "  awful  man."  Im 
agine  her  increased  horror  when,  draw 
ing  near  enough  to  discern  his  features, 
she  discovered  that  this  man  was  no 
other  than  that  young  wolf  of  the 
world,  against  whom  she  had  warned 
her  lamb  so  long. 

"  Eirene  Vale  !  "  she  exclaimed  in  her 
astonishment  and  anger.  "  Eirene  Vale, 
was  it  for  this  you  didn't  feel  able  to  go 
to  meetin'  ?  So  you  stayed  back  to 
meet  a  man — and  this  man  !  Haven't 
I  warned  you  ? "  [Losing  all  self-con 
trol.]  "  Paul  Mallane,  you'd  better  be 
in  better  business  1 " 

"  Miss  Stade,"  interrupted  that  youth, 
in  lofty  tone,  "  you  don't  know  what 
you  are  talking  about.  But  I  request 
you  to  speak  more  respectfully  to  this 
lady.  She  stay  to  meet  me !  to  meet 
any  one  1  You  know  better.  I  in 
truded  myself  upon  her,  because  there 
was  something  which  I  thought  neces 


sary  to  say  to  her.  I  have  heard  of  you 
as  being  very  zealous  in  your  efforts  to 
do  good.  Let  me  tell  you  that  nothing 
could  do  me  more  good  than  the  privi 
lege  of  speaking  with  this  young  lady. 
If  you  are  such  a  missionary,  take  care 
how  you  interfere  with  the  only  chance 
I  have  on  earth  of  becoming  a  Chris 
tian.  Miss  Vale,  may  I  accompany  you 
to  the  tent  ?  " 

Tilda,  who  had  started  to  seize  Eirene 
by  the  arm,  and  lead  her  back  as  a  cul 
prit,  was  confounded  by  the  overpower 
ing  manner  of  this  young  man,  and  all 
the  more  that  the  thought  crowded  in 
to  her  mind  that  she  remembered  him 
when  he  wore  frocks  and  aprons.  The 
tone  of  deference  with  which  he  ad 
dressed  Eirene  was  not  to  be  mistaken. 
The  most  exacting  lady  in  the  land 
could  not  have  demanded  more,  as  he 
walked  by  her  side,  while  the  discom 
fited  Tilda  followed  behind.  When,  at 
the  door  of  the  tent,  he  bade  her  good 
night,  with  his  hat  in  his  hand,  he  had 
not  the  air  of  a  man  who  was  ashamed 
of  himself,  or  ashamed  of  his  company, 
although  he  made  his  adieu  before  the 
amazed  eyes  of  the  gossips  of  Busy- 
ville.  One  of  them  declared,  in  the 
shop,  next  day,  "  Where  he  dropped 
from,  at  that  time  of  night,  the  Lord 
only  knows ;  but  there  he  was,  in  the 
tent-door,  bowing  good-night  to  that 
Vale  girl,  as  if  she  had  been  a  queen." 

"  So  all  I  brought  her  to  camp- meet- 
in'  for  was  to  meet  that  man,"  groaned 
Tilda,  as  she  tumbled  about  on  a  cotton 
comforter  which  she  had  spread  over 
the  straw  on  the  ground. 


A  WOMAN'S  RIGHT. 


VIII. 


PAUL'S  WOOING. 


PAUL  did  not  know  whether  he  was 
in  the  body  or  out  of  it.  He  had  but 
one  consciousness — this :  that  he  had 
seen  her — been  near  to  her — spoken 
with  her ;  that  her  eyes  had  looked 
up  to  his,  full  of  a  gentle  kindness — 
yea,  more  than  a  kindness- -were  they 
not  full  of  an  unspeakable  sympathy  ? 
He  had  seen  her,  he  had  been  near  her. 
Now,  his  only  desire  was  to  see  her,  to 
be  near  her,  again. 

"  Why  are  you  so  still  ?  If  you  are 
happy  in  the  Lord,  I  should  think  you 
would  say  something,"  said  Tilda  to 
Eirene  the  next  morning,  as  the  great 
Moloch  of  a  wagon  once  more  went  on 
crunching  roots  and  branches  beneath 
it  through  the  woods  before  sunrise. 
"  It  wasn't  my  way,  when  I  received  the 
evidence. .  I  was  so  happy,  I  couldn't 
keep  quiet.  But  you  are  different "  (in 
a  tone  of  disparagement). 

"  Yes,"  said  Eirene,  in  a  voice  too  far 
away  to  be  reached  by  Tilda's  reproof. 

A  few  hours  later,  as  she  stood  in  her 
old  place  at  work  in  the  factory,  John 
Mallane  came  to  her  side,  and  asked 
her  if  she  had  enjoyed  the  camp-meet 
ing.  When  she  answered  that  she  had, 
he  asked  her  if  she  didn't  feel  the  need 
of  a  little  vacation.  "  I  noticed,  several 
weeks  ago,  that  you  were  looking  very 
tired,"  he  said.  "  If  you  would  like  to 
go  home  for  three  or  four  weeks,  you 
can,  and  your  wages  may  go  on." 

"  Oh,  Mr.  Mallane,"  she  exclaimed,  in 
an  effusion  of  gratitude,  "that  would 
be  too  much;  the  others—" 

"  Never  mind  the  others,"  he  inter 
rupted  ;  "  they  are  no  concern  of  yours. 
If  you  would  like  to  go,  I  think  it  will 
be  better  all  around.  You  certainly 
need  the  rest." 

What  he  meant  by  the  statement  that 
her  going  would  make  it  better  all 
around,  John  Mallane  did  not  explain. 


Had  he  so  chosen  he  might  have  done 
it,  by  the  fact  that,  an  hour  before,  he 
had  submitted  to  a  very  unmerciful  at 
tack  from  Mrs.  Tabitha. 

"You  will  go  on  deaf  and  blind, 
John  Mallane,  till  that  girl  is  tied  to 
the  family.  You  don't  realize  it;  but 
I  tell  you,  even  now,  there  is  no  living 
with  Paul  because  she  is  out  of  the 
house."  And  she  went  on  waxing  .more 
and  more  enraged  at  every  word  she 
uttered,  until  her  husband  ended  it  with 
his  usual,  "  Well,  well,  Tabitha,  what 
do  you  want  done  ?  " 

"  I  want  you  to  send  her  home  as 
straight  as  she  can  go ;  and,  if  you 
listen  to  me,  you  will  never  let  her 
come  back." 

"  To  do  that  would  be  too  cruel,"  he 
replied ;  "  but  I  will  give  her  a  vaca 
tion  while  Paul  is  at  home,  if  you  say 
so,  mother." 

"  I  do  say  so."  And  she  would  have 
said  a  great  deal  more,  but  she  knew 
that  John  Mallane  "  had  put  his  foot 
down,"  and  that  it  was  perfectly  use 
less  to  make  further  demands. 

That  evening,  at  twilight,  Paul  sat 
on  the  door-step,  smoking  his  cigar  in 
a  very  uneasy  state  of  mind.  He  did 
not  know  what  to  do  with  himself. 
Every  impulse  in  him  impelled  him  to 
walk  over  to  the  little  house  across  the 
street,  and  yet  he  compelled  himself  to 
remain  where  he  was. 

"  Haven't  I  said  every  thing  to  her 
that  I  have  a  right  to  say  ?  "  he  asked 
himself.  "  I  told  her  what  she  had 
done  for  me — what  she  could  do  for  me ; 
asked  her  to  be  my  friend.  Of  course, 
there  is  nothing  more  to  be  said." 

But  this  conclusion  did  not  soothe 
him  any.  He  felt  an  insane  desire  just 
to  see  her  again. 

"  If  I  could  only  sit  down  where  she 
is,  if  I  didn't  say  a  word,  I  should  be 
contented,"  he  ejaculated  mentally,  as 


80 


EIRKSB : 


be  sent  some  sudden  whiffs  of  smoke 
into  the  air.  Just  then  he  heard  Seth 
Goolve's  gate  close  with  a  ring.  It  was 
Tilda  Stade,  who  shut  it  sharply  for  his 
benefit.  She  saw  him  distinctly,  sitting 
there  smoking,  and  the  triumph  in  her 
breast  would  not  be  denied,  for  Eirene 
walked  by  her  side  with  a  satchel  in 
her  hand.  She  was  going  to  Hilltop 
on  the  evening  train,  and  Tilda  was 
her  body-guard  to  the  station.  If  Paul 
could  have  seen  the  expression  of  her 
face  as  she  turned  toward  the  gate, 
while  she  passed  swiftly  on  the  other 
side  of  the  street,  he  would  have  read, 
"  Come,  if  you  dare  ;  "  and,  seeing  it, 
would  very  likely  have  dared,  if  only 
out  of  defiance  of  his  implacable  ene 
my.  But  Tilda's  glance  of  ire  expend 
ed  itself  in  the  dimness.  He  did  not 
see  it,  yet  he  started  with  the  impulse 
to  go  after  them. 

"  What's  the  use,  while  that  dragon 
is  with  her  ?  "  he  thought ;  and  he  set 
tled  back  on  the  door-step,  and  puffed 
away  on  his  cigar  in  profound  thought. 

The  afternoon  of  the  next  day  Eirene 
sat  by  the  open  window  of  her  own 
room  at  Hillside.  Language  is  too  poor 
to  portray  the  beatitude  of  spirit  which 
seemed  to  pervade  and  glorify  her.  To 
be  at  home — to  be  free — no  dinging  bell 
to  command  her  to  toil  for  how  many 
blessed  weeks !  The  sense  of  escape,  of 
freedom,  filled  her  with  a  joy  too  keen 
to  be  real.  Was  the  weary  summer,  the 
ten  hours1  toil,  the  stifling  chamber,  a 
vanished  dream  ?  Or  was  this  a  dream 
— that,  once  more  alone,  at  liberty,  she 
looked  forth  on  the  beloved  woods  of 
her  childhood,  in  all  their  August  pomp, 
as  they  held  their  green  crowns  in  the 
still  blue  air  ?  The  clouds,  in  great  piles 
of  fleecy  cumuli,  rested  on  the  moun 
tain-tops,  or  in  snowy  fleets  sailed  slowly 
on  and  on,  and  were  lost  in  infinite  dis 
tance.  Eirene  watched  them  as  they 
went,  and  her  sight  drooped  midway 
in  the  ocean  of  air ;  it  seemed  so  vast, 
after  1ne  strip  of  sky  which  had  bound 
ed  her  summer.  The  wide  earth  was 
at  rest,  with  its  fruits  ripening  on  its 
heart.  With  what  eager  delight  Eirene 
counted  the  harvests — the  apples  yel 


lowing  and  reddening  in  the  hillside 
orchard — the  co~n  with  its  pale  green 
tassels — the  meadow  just  under  the 
window,  running  down  to  the  river, 
now  a  broad  field  of  tobacco.  Was 
there  ever  before  such  a  field  of  tobac 
co,  with  its  languid,  aromatic  leaves, 
and  flowers  of  amber  ?  No  ;  such  leaves 
as  these  had  never  before  ripened  in 
Massachusetts'  sunshine,  Eirene  felt 
sure.  She  leaned  from  the  window, 
and  tried  to  count  every  stately  flower 
ing  stalk.  She  grew  exultant  over  the 
unthought-of  numbers  of  their  waving 
ranks.,  Already  she  saw  them  lying 
slain  beneath  the  September  sun ;  saw 
the  green  leaves  stacked  and  counted, 
golden-brown,  in  the  barn ;  saw  the 
trader  from  Busyville,  who  had  bought 
it,  lay  the  gleaming  dollars  on  the  sit 
ting-room  table — and  Hillside  was  re 
deemed  !  Had  Eirene  been  older,  wiser; 
more  of  a  philosopher,  she  might  have 
estimated  the  probable  harm  which 
would  be  done  to  human  nerves  through 
the  narcotic  forces  of  this  innocent-look 
ing  field  of  green  and  amber.  But,  per 
sonally,  she  had  never  seen  any  of  the 
evil  results  born  of  tie  intoxicating 
plant.  This  field  of  tobacco — what  did 
it  not  promise  the  heart  of  love  and  the 
imagination  of  youth,  as  both  went  on 
building  dreams  in  the  summer  air ! 
With  no  debt  on  the  Hillside  farm,  pov 
erty  would  be  impossible.  Her  father 
— she  saw  him  with  head  erect  at  last ; 
no  more  shrinking  away  from  loud- 
voiced  Farmer  Stave.  He  had  a  new 
hat  and  a  new  buggy  ;  and  Muggins-r- 
Mugscins  had  retired  to  browse  through 
a  millennium  of  bliss  in  a  field  of  clo 
ver,  never  again  to  be  implored  to  "  Get 
up."  There  is  a  new  horse — a  horse  not 
unlike  one  she  has  seen  arch  his  neck 
and  dart  away  from  the  gate  of  the 
white  house  under  the  maples  at  Busy 
ville,  though  she  is  unconscious  of  any 
relationship  between  the  animals.  Her 
mother  has  a  new  gown— the  black  silk 
gown  which  Mary  Vale  has  so  long 
meekly  and  hopelessly  desired.  Pansy 
is  resplendent  in  another  newr  frock, 
this  time  as  pink  as  the  June  roses. 
Win  is  in  college  ;  and  she — Eirene— is 


A  WOMAN'S  RIGHT. 


81 


sitting  at  an  old  desk  in  the  academy 
of  Busyville,  studying  hard. 

Thus  far  into  the  land  of  dreams  had 
the  field  of  tobacco  transported  Eirene. 
If  for  one  instant  Tabitha  Mallane 
could  have  caught  a  glimpse  of  these 
brain-pictures,  she  would  have  set  her 
jaw  and  nudged  her  head  with  a  tri 
umphant,  "  I  told  you  so  !  I  told  you 
she  was  of  the  sort  that  a  sixpence 
could  make  feel  rich  !  How  little  it 
takes  to  make  some  people  feel  rich,  to 
be  sure  !  "  Yes,  she  would  study  hard, 
and  try  and  make  up  for  every  mental 
deficiency.  Then,  it  would  not  seem 
quite  so  presumptuous  for  her  to  con 
sider  herself  the  friend  of  one  who  had 
enjoyed  every  advantage  of  education 
and  society.  This  blissful  thought  per 
vaded  every  other.  She  had  a  friend  ! 
It  was  an  utterly  new  sensation,  this, 
that  she  had  a  friend — that  he  needed 
her  !  Her  !  How  could  any  one  away 
from  Hillside,  least  of  all  one  who  had 
so  much,  who  knew  so  much — one  who 
was  in  every  way  so  superior  to  herself 
— need  her  !  Oh,  it  was  delightful  and 
passing  strange  ! 

You  will  perceive  that  our  Eirene, 
who  to  this  moment  has  been  serene 
and  sensible  beyond  the  verge  of  dul- 
ness,  has  suddenly  become  foolish.  More 
innocent  she  was  in  worldly  wisdom, 
less  wise,  than  the  average  girls  of 
eighteen.  It  was  not;  in  her  power  to 
see  Paul  a.s  he  absolutely  was.  Indeed, 
it  was  not  his  ordinary  self  which  had 
appeared  and  conversed  with  her — not 
the  calculating,  double-faced,  every-day 
Paul,  but  an  occasional  Paul,  who,  at 
rare  intervals,  astonished  the  first  with 
pure  and  genuine  feeling.  I  am  aware 
that,  to  this  moment,  Eirene  has  been 
very  tame — a  gray  little  dove,  too  sad 
and  quiet  to  be  any  thing  of  a  heroine. 
She  will  never  astonish  you,  for  her  soul 
can  only  be  harmonious  with  itself.  But 
all  the  neutral  tints  in  her  life  go  out  in 
the  dawn  of  love.  Her  maiden  heart, 
deep  and  still  as  a  tranquil  lake,  can 
never  go  back  to  its  peaceful  calm  after 
it  has  been  moved  and  troubled  to  its 
depths  by  both  the  angel  and  demon 
of  passion.  For,  of  course,  Paul  is 
6 


coming  !  While  Eirene  leans  from  her 
window  and  counts  the  tobacco-stalks, 
perching  a  fairy  castle  on  every  one, 
Paul  is  coming  toward  Hillside  as  fast 
as  Fleetfoot,  the  horse  with  the  arching 
neck,  can  bring  him.  Why  he  is  com 
ing,  he  neither  asked  himself  nor  an 
swered.  He  pricked  Fleetfoot's  sides, 
and  urged  him  up  the  steep  and  often 
perilous  roads  to  Hilltop  with  an  incon 
siderate  haste,  which  made  the  moun 
taineers,  in  their  jogging  wagons,  look 
after  him,  and  mutter,  "  That  teller's 
a-goin'  for  the  doctor,  sure  !  Must  be 
a  case  of  life  and  death."  Ah,  it  was 
all  of  life,  that  ardent,  irrepressible 
haste,  but  not  all  of  love — for  it  was  in 
part  of  anger ;  anger  goaded  love,  and 
hurried  it  on. 

As  usual,  Tabitha  Mallane  had  has 
tened  a  result  which  she  would  have 
made  any  sacrifice  to  avert.  That  very 
day  Mother  Harkwell,  one  of  the  old 
ladies  who  had  remained  with  Eirene 
in  the  tent,  came  to  unburden  her  mind 
to  "  poor  Sister  Mallane." 

"  I  was  lis'nin'  to  the  preachin',"  she 
said ;  "  the  gal  was  a-sittin'  by  the 
door ;  bime-by  I  looked,  and  the  gal 
was  gone ;  whar,  I've  no  idee.  I  was 
so  took  up  with  the  preachin',  I  hadn't 
seen  her  go.  She  was  gone  more'n  an 
hour,  I  calkerlate.  When  she  came 
round  ag'in,  it  was  with  your  son. 
Whar  do  ye  suppose  they'd  be'n  to  ? 
It's  my  idee  that  it  was  all  a  plot  afore- 
hand.  It's  tryin'  to  the  sperrit  to  tell 
ye,  Sister  Mallane,  but  I  must  do  my 
duty.  'Cordin'  to  my  thinkin',  you'd 
better  look  arter  Paul  and  that  ar  gal." 

Unfortunately  for  Paul,  he  appeared 
in  the  yellow  sitting-room  just  after  the 
departure  of  Mother  Harkwell.  If  a 
single  hour  had  intervened,  in  that 
Tabitha  Mallane  would  have  calmed 
down,  and  her  sober  judgment  would 
once  more  have  held  a  rein  over  her 
temper.  But  the  sight  of  Paul,  at  this 
moment,  was  too  much  for  it.  Her 
rage  at  the  story  which  she  had  just 
heard,  suddenly  laid  low  all  the  self- 
control  which  she  had  been  building  up 
for  her  own  and  others'  management 
for  months.  So  it  was  all  a  plan — a 


32 


EIKENB: 


plan  contrived  beforehand  !  That  girl 
had  gone,  and  Paul  had  gone,  to  the 
camp-meeting,  to  meet  each  other  !  If 
he  thwarted  all  her  wishes  and  defied 
her — this  lawless  son  ! — at  least  she 
would  pour  out  upon  him  her  wrath; 
and  she  did.  Paul  looked  her  in  the 
eyes,  and  listened  till  she  accused  him 
of  the  precontrived  plan  for  meeting 
Eirene  at  the  camp-meeting.  Then  his 
face  blanched,  and,  without  a  word  in 
reply,  he  turned,  walked  out  of  the 
room,  and  out  of  the  house. 

A  very  few  moments  after,  Tabitha 
Mallane,  from  the  window,  saw  him 
mount  Fleetfoot  and  ride  rapidly  away. 
Then  she  knew  what  she  had  done. 
She  sat  down  and  rocked  the  oradle  for 
an  hour,  with  what  force  you  may  ima 
gine  ;  for  the  baby  screamed  with  the 
colic  for  the  next  twelve. 

During  the  first  half  of  his  ride,  Paul 
thought  chiefly  of  his  mother.  With 
out  knowing  it,  he  was  glad  in  his 
heart  that  she  had  given  him  an  excuse 
for  just  what  he  was  at  this  present  mo 
ment  doing. 

"  She  made  me,"  he  said  to  himself, 
approbatively.  "  Does  she  suppose  that 
a  man  is  going  to  stand  and  be  accused 
of  what  he  is  not  guilty,  and  not  re 
ward  himself  for  such  injustice  ?  I've 
tried  hard  enough  to  do  what  she 
thought  best,  and  what  I  tried  to  think 
best ;  but,  hang  it,  I'm  doing  what  I 
know  is  best  now  !  Yet,  I  might  have 
kept  fr.im  it,  if  she  hadn't  accused  me 
in  advance." 

The  momentum  of  his  wrath  was 
spent  by  the  time  he  reached  the  sum 
mit  of  the  Hilltop  road.  Here  he  in 
quired  the  way  of  Farmer  Stave,  sitting 
on  the  station-steps,  waiting  for  the 
train.  In  a  few  moments  be  had  struck 
into  the  mountain-road.  Its  grass-grown 
paths  ran  on  smoothly  to  Hillside.  Now 
\\ii  mother  seemed  far  behind.  Every 
step  brought  him  nearer  to  her.  Every 
plan  and  project  of  his  busy  brain  was 
this  moment  as  void  as  if  it  had  never 
been.  All  his  scheming  youth  had  re 
ceded  and  vanished  out  of  his  conscious 
ness.  All  his  future,  with  its  dazzling 
pictures  of  wealth  and  power,  had  faded 


from  his  sight.  The  present  possessed 
him.  He  loved  her.  He  was  near  her. 
A  few  moments  more,  and  he  should 
see  her,  and  tell  her  the  trut-h— the 
whole  truth.  What  the  consequences 
of  this  truth-telling  may  be,  he  does 
not  ask.  "  Consequences  "  he  has  not 
even  the  power  to  remember.  Young 
men  of  twenty-four,  who,  in  defiance  of 
their  own  many  maxims  of  prudence, 
and  in  open  revolt  against  their  moth 
ers,  suddenly  commit  themselves  to 
an  overmastering  love-passion,  seldom 
think  of  consequences,  or  inquire  after 
them.  Do  they  ?  Certainly,  Paul  Mal 
lane  did  not.  How  could  he  minister 
to  this  life  which  he  was  seeking  ?  If 
he  wooed  and  won  this  girl,  could  he 
make  her  happy  as  his  wife  ?  Was  he 
fit  to  be  her  husband  ?  Were  they  to 
gether  fitted,  by  temperament,  educa 
tion,  and  love,  for  harmonious,  life-long 
companionship  ?  These  were  after 
thoughts.  Paul  had  not  reached  the 
moment  of  after-thoughts.  Youth,  in 
the  first  ardor  of  love,  never  does.  He 
was  in  love— utterly  in  love  ;  that  was 
all  he  thought  or  knew.  That  is  about 
all  most  men  think  or  know,  when  first 
struck  into  this  blissful  condition.  Is 
it  not  ? 

Thus  Paul  pricked  Fleetfoot's  sides, 
and  the  thud  of  his  hoofs  in  the  soft 
turf  grew  more  and  more  rapid.  In  a 
few  moments  the  woods  were  passed, 
and  there,  in  the  wide  space  on  the 
other  side  of  the  river,  was  Hillside 
farm ! 

As  you  already  know,  it  was  a  lowly 
abode ;  yet  it  possessed  two  indispen 
sable  elements  of  beauty — fitness  and 
harmony.  It  belonged  to  the  land 
scape  ;  it  seemed  to  complete  and  per 
fect  it.  In  a  different  mood,  Paul  would 
have  pronounced  it  a  "  poor  affair." 
You  may  judge  of  the  exaltation  of  his 
mental  condition,  by  the  fact  that  he 
never  thought  to  compare  it  with  Marl 
boro  Hill.  He  only  said,  "  How  pleas 
ant  !  I  should  think  an  innocent  might 
have  grown  up  in  a  spot  like  this." 
Meanwhile,  our  maiden  still  sits  by  the 
window,  building  beautiful  palaces  in 
her  field  of  tobacco — following  with  her 


A  WOMAN'S  EIGHT. 


83 


eyes  the  sailing  clouds,  watching  the 
lights  and  shadows  which  they  drop 
along  the  mountain-sides  and  on  the 
woods,  heart  and  eyes  overflowing  with 
an  unknown  happiness.  It  is  the  story 
old  as  the  earth — the  maiden  waiting 
for  the  man,  the  man  coming  to  woo 
the  maiden. 

Here  I  feel  inclined  to  stop,  and  tell 
you  no  more.  Silence  is  never  so  gold 
en  as  when  it  shuts  from  the  world  the 
supreme  moments  of  life.  Love,  the 
sweetest  ever  uttered,  seems  to  lose 
somewhat  of  its  sacredness  when  its 
utterance  is  heard  and  repeated.  This 
is  why  the  love-scenes  in  novels  are 
nearly  always  too  hot  or  too  cold.  The 
lover  says  too  much,  or  he  says  too  lit 
tle.  The  love-making  never  seems  quite 
natural,  quite  perfect;  and,  while  we 
read,  we  have  something  the  feeling  of 
a  person  who  is  listening  to  what  was 
only  meant  for  the  ears  of  one.  As  for 
Paul,  in  his  present  mood,  he  is  sure  to 
say  too  much.  I  am  sure  that  what  he 
says  will  not  sound  well  repeated. 

Eirene,  from  her  window,  sees  horse 
and  rider  emerge  from  the  road  through 
the  woods.  This  is  not  an  unusual 
sight.  Farmer  Stave  and  Deacon  Smoot 
may  be  seen  jogging  forth  from  it  almost 
any  day.  But  it  is  doubtful  if  any 
thing  equal  to  the  arch  in  Fleetfoot's 
neck  had  been  ever  seen  before  on  any 
horse  which  has  preceded  him.  It  is 
this  which  attracts  and  fixes  Eirene's 
gaze.  She  says,  "  It  is  ! — No,  it  cannot 
be  !  Impossible !  But  it  looks  the  very 
same  !  No  ! — yes  ! — it  is  ! — it  is  Paul 
Mallane  !  "  There  can  be  no  mistaking 
him  now.  Fleetfoot's  quick  feet  are 
striking  impatiently  the  loose  boards 
of  the  bridge  just  below  the  house  with 
that  peculiar  muffled  ring  which  has 
made  Eirene  look  up  from  her  work  so 
many  times  since  she  was  a  little  girl. 
They  come  more  slowly  along  the  road 
under  the  maple-trees,  as  if  hesitating 
or  faltering  a  little  upon  such  near  ap 
proach  to  the  house. 

"  Has  he  come  to  Hillside  for  a  ride  ? 
Can  he  be  coming  here  ?  No,  he  can 
not  be  ! — Yes,  he  must  be  !  "  said  Eirene 
in  the  same  instant  to  herself;  yet  she 


moved  not.  Very  soon  she  heard  Fleet* 
foot  striking  his  shoes  against  the 
fence.  She  could  not  see  the  front 
gate,  but  she  heard  it  click,  and  then 
quick  steps  along  the  garden-path  and 
in  the  old  porch ;  then  the  old  iron 
knocker  sent  its  loud  ring  through  the 
silent  house,  and  then  for  the  first  time 
she  started  with  the  recollection  that 
there  was  not  a  soul  below — that  she 
herself  must  go  and  open  the  door. 
Her  father  and  Win  are  out  in  the 
fields,  and  her  mother  and  Pansy  had 
gone  in  the  buggy  to  Hilltop,  to  buy 
some  extra  sweets  for  the  anticipated 
reunion  tea.  She  kept  him  waiting 
scarcely  two  minutes,  but  they  seemed 
fifty  to  Paul ;  yet  she  kept  him  waiting 
while  she  did  what  ninety-nine  maid 
ens  out  of  a  hundred  would  have  done 
— she  gave  a  little  brush  to  her  hair, 
and  looked  wistfully  at  herself  in  the 
little  glass,  for  the  first  time  in  her  life 
moved  to  such  an  act  from  the  desire 
to  seem  not  unlovely  in  the  eyes  of  one. 

Paul  was  just  beginning  to  ask  him 
self  if  it  was  possible  any  unthought- 
of  dragon  could  be  lurking  in  the  little 
habitation,  when  he  heard  a  soft  step  ; 
then,  the  door  of  her  lowly  home  was 
opened  to  him  by  Eirene.  Her  lovely 
color  came  and  went,  as  she  frankly  ex 
tended  her  hand  and  invited  him  to 
enter. 

"  I  know  you  are  astonished  to  see 
me  here,"  began  Paul  at  once ;  *'  but, 
Miss  Vale — Eirene — my  darling  ! — don't 
look  frightened ;  I've  called  you  so  a 
hundred  times  to  myself — I  cannot  live 
without  you — I  cannot  even  try  to ; 
and  I  have  come  to  tell  you  so." 

Seeing  how  very  emphatic  was  Paul's 
first  utterance,  you  see  it  is  better  to  re 
peat  no  more  that  he  said.  Nob  that  I 
am  ashamed  of  it,  nor  that  he  had 
cause  to  be  ashamed  of  it ;  for  it  was 
the  first  time  in  his  life  that  he  had 
uttered  the  words  of  an  entire,  disin 
terested  affection — and  it  would  be  the 
last. 

Experiences  deeper,  more  holy,  may 
come  to  the  woman  afterwards,  but  they 
can  never  repeat  the  rapture  which  runs 
through  the  maiden's  heart,  when  for 


EIRENM : 


the  first  time  she  is  made  conscious 
that  she  is  beloved.  Then  her  life  sud 
denly  takes  on  its  complete  meaning, 
and  for  the  first  time  she  knows  why 
she  was  born.  We  must  remember, 
outside  of  her  home,  how  little  had 
come  into  this  girl's  life — how  barren  it 
was — in  order  to  realize  how  wonderful 
and  delicious  seemed  the  largess  of 
human  love  now  poured  out  to  her. 
We  must  not  forget  that  Paul,  though 
neither  morally  nor  intellectually  the 
god  which  he  appeared  to  her  to  be, 
nevertheless  possessed  that  charm  of 
person  and  of  manner,  that  magnetism 
of  mind,  so  potent  with  women. 

We  know  that  women  possessed  of 
all  the  opportunities  which  fortune  and 
society  give,  had  passed  by  better  men 
to  bestow  their  preference  upon  him, 
solely  through  this  force  of  personality. 
Then,  what  must  it  have  been  to  this 
girl,  into  the  whole  of  whose  life  be 
fore  nothing  so  bright  or  so  strong  had 
ever  come  !  If  he  was  attractive  when 
all  that  was  best  in  him  had  been  held 
in  abeyance,  how  much  more  so  was  he 
now,  while  every  look  and  word  of  his 
were  transfigured  in  intense  and  genu 
ine  emotion  !  What  a  story  was  that 
which  fell  upon  her  bewildered  and  en 
raptured  ears !  She  listened  in  thrill 
ing  silence,  tears  and  smiles  passing 
over  her  clear  eyes  swift  as  the  sunshine 
aud  shadow  on  the  woods  without,  the 
eloquence  of  her  face  every  instant  in 
creasing  the  eloquence  of  the  story. 
What  passionate  entreaty  !  Would  she 
love  him,  and  wait  for  him  ?  Another 
year,  and  he  would  be  established  in 
his  profession.  He  could  make  his  own 
home.  Would  she  be  the  angel  in  the 
house  ?  Would  she  be  his  wife  ?  Would 
she  make  him  what  she  pleased — noble 
and  good,  through  his  love  for  her  ? 

It  is  hard  that  the  retributive  cheru 
bim  should  always  be  near,  and  always 
ready  to  drive  us  out  of  paradise.  This 
time  the  avenging  angel  was  Muggins. 
Paul  fell  straight  from  heaven  at  the 
near  rattle  of  wagon-wheels  and  the 
shrill  cry  of  a  girl-voice.  Nothing 
could  make  Muggins  lively  but  the 
sight  :>f  the  barn  after  a  1'ttle  exertion ; 


and  Pansy,  seeing  that  her  nose  was 
again  endangered,  was  wildly  jerking 
the  reins,  and  screaming  to  Muggins  to 
''  stop ! " 

Paul,  looking  out,  saw  a  plainly- 
dressed  woman  and  little  girl  drive 
frantically  up  to  the  house,  in  a  very 
forlorn  buggy,  with  a  very  remarkable- 
looking  horse.  Then  for  the  first  time 
he  realized  the  disagreeable  fact  that 
Eirene  had  relations  ;  and  immediately 
he  felt  injured  that  it  was  possible  she 
could  belong  to  any  body  but  himself. 
A  moment  before,  it  had  seemed  to  him 
that  he  and  she  were  alone  on  the 
earth — as  if  he  could  gather  her  into 
his  arms  and  bear  her  away  to  be  his 
own,  alone,  forever.  And  here  was  a 
mother  and  sister,  and  no  telling  how 
many  more  relatives,  to  be  consulted  ! 
And  what  a  looking  horse  !  He  was 
very  much  in  love,  but  he  could  not 
help  seeing  Muggins.  He  forgot  her, 
however,  a  moment  after,  when  he  had 
been  introduced,  and  was  looking  into 
the  face  of  Eirene's  mother.  She  was 
so  like  her  daughter  !  The  large,  soft 
eyes,  with  their  tender  smile  and  sug 
gestion  of  tears,  won  the  better  Paul 
directly,  and  so  entirely,  that  he  forgot 
altogether  that  her  dress  was  very  un 
fashionable,  and  her  bonnet  many  sea 
sons  old.  It  was  not  at  all  difficult  to 
ask  this  mother  for  her  child — not  for 
to-day  or  to-morrow,  but  when  he  had 
proved  himself  worthy  of  her,  and 
when  he  could  offer  her  a  home  fit  for 
her  to  adorn  and  crown. 

As  Mary  Vale  listened  to  Paul,  it 
seemed  to  her  that  the  enchanting  pic 
tures  of  h«r  youth  were  all  to  be  made 
real  in  the  life  of  her  child.  She  knew 
Paul  well  and  favorably,  through  his 
family  name.  Of  the  world  in  which 
Paul  lived,  of  its  influences  and  temp 
tations,  she  knew  absolutely  nothing. 
But.  she  knew  that  she  saw  before  her  a 
handsome,  earnest,  and  eloquent  face  : 
that  the  owner  of  this  face  was  plead 
ing  for  the  privilege  of  making  the  life 
of  her  beloved  child  happy.  She  be 
lieved  every  word  that  he  said — which 
is  not  remarkable,  for  Paul  himself 
believed  every  word  he  said. 


A  WOMAN'S  RIGHT. 


35 


It  was  not  thought  necessary  to  in 
troduce  Pansy  at  once ;  thus  she  avenged 
herself  by  softly  peeping  through  the 
door.  "  Oh  !  "  her  busy  little  brain 
exclaimed,  "  Oh,  what  a  handsome  man  ! 
He  looks  like  the  Prince  in  the  fairy 
tale.  He  has  come  for  Eirene !  I 
know  he  has,  by  the  way  he  looks ! 
Why  didn't  he  come  tor  me  ?  I'm  so 
tired  of  this  old  place  !  If  somebody 
don't  come  for  me,  I'll  run  away.  I 
read  about  a  girl  who  did." 

A  few  moments  afterwards,  Paul  saw 
this  little  damsel,  and  was  made  ac 
quainted  with  her.  "  What  a  remark 
able  combination  !  "  he  said  to  himself; 
"  such  yellow  hair,  and  such  dark  eyes 
— purple — black !  What  a  beauty  she'll 
be,  some  day  !  We'll  bring  her  out, 
and  she'll  make  a  great  match." 

It  was  a  fair  picture  that  Paul  saw, 
as  he  mounted  his  horse  and  looked 
back :  the  mother,  the  maiden,  and  the 
little  girl — the  head  touched  with  gray, 
the  head  of  auburn-brown,  and  the  head 
of  gold. 

"  I've  seen  beauty  before — never  beau 
ty  like  this,"  said  Paul,  as  he  looked 
once  more  with  a  smiling  adieu,  and 
rode  reluctantly  away.  But  it  was 
Eirene's  face  that  went  with  him,  and 
the  touch  of  her  hand  as  she  had  given 
it  to  him  in  parting.  Fleetfoot  paced 
through  the  woods  with  a  slow,  medi 
tating  step,  so  unlike  that  of  his  com 
ing.  He  had  taken  on  the  mood  of  his 
rider,  whose  rein  had  dropped  upon  his 
neck.  Paul  felt  that  every  step  was 
taking  him  from  the  joy  of  his  heart. 
He  could  think  of  nothing  but  how  she 
had  looked — how  she  had  spoken — how 
incomparably  lovely  she  was,  and  that, 
after  all,  in  defiance  of  every  thing,  she 
was  to  be  his  !  This  condition  lasted 
till  the  Hilltop  station  was  passed. 
Then  it  was  no  longer  Hillside,  but 
Busyville,  that  he  was  near.  Busyville  ! 
Why  must  he  go  back  to  Busyville — to 
Dick  Prescott — to  the  world — above  all, 
to  his  mother  ?  The  face  that  he  had 
left  behind  belonged  to  neither.  The 
heart  that  he  had  won  beat  like  a  cap 
tive's  in  his  father's  shop.  After  all,  he 
had  done  it — done  just  v»hat  his  moth 


er,  what  Dick  Prescott,  had  said  that 
he  would.  He  had  wooed  and  won  a 
shop-girl !  All  these  together  could  not 
make  him  regret  it.  He  would  stand 
by  her.  He  would  marry  her  in  spite  of 
them  all.  He  had  not  yet  lived  to  the 
hard  moment  of  the  after-thought. 

But  it  came :  it  was  not  possible  that 
it  would  not  come  to  Paul  Mallane. 
We  love — as  we  do  every  thing  else — 
according  to  our  nature.  The  defects 
of  temperament,  the  infirmity  of  tem 
per,  the  partial  insight,  the  clouded 
judgment,  the  unreasonable  prejudice, 
which  distorts  so  much  that  is  good  in 
us,  which  mars  so  many  of  the  fair  ac 
tions  cf  our  daily  life,  extend  no  less  to 
our  affections.  The  fault  of  our  char 
acter  is  visible  in  our  love.  Paul  loved 
Eirene,  but  he  was  no  less  Paul.  In  the 
very  glow  of  his  passion,  he  saw  that 
Muggins  was  a  very  ridiculous  horse ; 
and,  as  he  came  again  and  again  to 
Hillside,  he  saw  each  time  more  dis 
tinctly  something  which  the  glamour 
of  his  feelings  had  made  imperceptible 
to  him  before.  It  is  true,  he  was  too 
much  in  love  to  be  moved  from  his  pur 
pose  by  any  thing  that  be  saw.  Yet 
his  cool  brain  asserted  itself  more  and 
more,  in  defiance  of  his  passionate 
heart.  His  forecasting  judgment,  on 
which  he  had  prided  himself  so  long, 
retaliated  for  the  slight  he  had  shown 
it,  by  perpetually  tormenting  him  with 
suggestions  of  expediency,  amid  all  his 
ardor  of  tenderness.  He  forgot  them 
while  looking  into  her  eyes  and  taking 
into  his  heart  the  sweet  tones  of  her 
voice,  while  walking  with  her  along  the 
voiceful  river,  or  sitting  with  her  in 
some  sheltered  nook  by  its  side,  osten 
sibly  waiting  for  the  fish  which  were 
so  deliciously  slow  to  bite.  In  all  his 
life,  Paul  had  never  been  so  true  a  Paul 
as  in  these  moments.  He  was  delicate 
and  chivalric.  He  would  sooner  have 
cut  off  his  hand  than  to  have  taken  ad 
vantage,  even  by  a  word,  of  the  inno 
cent  and  absolute  trust  of  the  creature 
by  his  siae.  Sbe  was  to  be  his  wife — 
his  beloved  wife  !  This  was  the  begin 
ning  and  end  of  the  sweet  story,  told 
over  and  over  in  glowing  words.  Paul 


86 


EIKBNE : 


builded  and  furnished  the  house  in 
which  they  were  to  dwell ;  he  even 
fashioned  the  ponies  and  the  phaeton, 
which  were  to  be  especially  her  own. 
He  surrounded  her  with  music  and 
flowers,  with  poetry,  beauty,  and  love ; 
and,  as  she  listened  mpre  and  more,  she 
breathed  in  a  realm  of  enchantment. 
This  was  life,  and  life  was  love,  and 
Paul  was  its  creator  and  king !  It 
seemed  so  possible,  so  real,  so  very  near, 
this  story  told  to  the  maiden  in  white, 
amid  the  green  leaves'  flickering  sha 
dows,  beside  the  laughing  waters.  But 
how  remote,  if  not  impossible,  it  be 
came  the  moment  Paul  sat  down  in  the 
little  house  !  In  that  moment  his  ro 
mance  suffered  a  fearful  collapse.  The 
thought  came  to  him  then,  as  a  possi 
bility,  that  his  bearing  Eirene  off  to  his 
fairy  palace  might  involve  the  taking 
with  her  of  her  entire  family.  His 
judgment  assured  him  that  he,  Paul 
Mallane,  considering  the  wealthy  match 
that  he  might  have  made,  had  reached 
a  state  of  perfect  magnanimity  in  love, 
in  that  he  was  willing  and  glad  to 
marry  a  girl  without  a  cent ;  but  mar 
rying  her  family  in  addition  was  quite 
another  thing,  and  more  than  could  be 
expected  even  of  such  a  magnanimous 
man.  He  knew  nothing  of  the  mort 
gage  on  Hillside,  but,  every  time  he 
came,  he  saw  more  and  more  clearly 
the  extreme  poverty  of  its  inmates.  It 
was  written  all  over  the  little  parlor  in 
which  he  sat  with  Eirene.  though  there 
was  nothing  in  it  which  offended  his 
taste,  like  the  parlor  in  Busyville.  But 
the  cheap  chintz  covers  on  the  lounge 
and  stools  and  chairs,  and  the  carpet 
on  the  floor,  had  been  made  by  the 
hands  of  Eirene  and  her  mother,  in 
their  attempt  to  cover  the  poverty  that 
would  not  be  hidden.  The  effect  of 
every  thing  was  refined  and  scrupulous 
ly  neat;  but  oh,  how  poor  !  The  same 
etory  of  lifelong  poverty  was  stamped 
in  the  patient  hopelessness  of  Lowell 
Vale's  face,  in  the  gentle  sadness  of  his 
wife's,  in  the  restlessness  of  Win's,  and 
the  peevish  discontent  of  the  little  Pan 
sy's.  It  was  a  yreat  advance  on  his 
pleasure-loving  life,  when  Paul  Mallaue 


resolutely  made  up  his  mind  to  work 
hard  in  his  profession,  to  marry  a  poor 
girl,  and  to  support  her  by  his  own 
efforts  in  accordance  with  his  position. 
When  we  take  into  consideration  Paul's 
antecedents  and  habits,  it  is  not  sur 
prising  that  he  was  appalled  at  the 
prospect  of  any  additional  burden 
which  might  possibly  devolve  upon 
him  through  this  marriage.  His  tor 
menting  head  kept  reminding  him  of 
it,  and  asking  him  how  he  could  bear 
it.  Yet,  he  was  so  much  in  love,  it 
made  not  the  slightest  difference  in  his 
actions.  Almost  every  day,  for  four 
bright  weeks,  Tabitha  Mallane  saw  him 
mount  Fleetfoot  and  ride  away — whith 
er,  she  knew  too  well;  but  the  look  on 
his  face,  so  like  his  father's  when  he 
had  "  made  up  his  mind,"  compelled 
her  to  silence.  She  asked  no  questions, 
made  no  remonstrance.  She  knew  that 
it  was  too  late. 

For  Paul,  all  the  poetry  of  his  life 
was  concentrated  in  this  single  month. 
He  had  never  known  its  like  before ;  he 
would  never  know  its  like  again.  The 
world  of  planning  and  of  scheming 
and  of  ambition  was  far  behind  him. 
He  lived  in  the  benign  world  of  nature, 
and  in  his  truest  affections.  He  uttered 
more  words  of  love,  created  more  in 
this  little  time,  than  a  man  under  ordi 
nary  conditions  would  in  years.  He 
lived  more  in  rich  experience  and  in 
keen  delight  in  this  one  month,  than 
do  many  mortals  in  a  lifetime.  Per 
haps  he  felt  instinctively  that  its  won 
der  of  joy  could  never  be  repeated,  and 
this  was  why  he  gave  himself  entirely 
to  the  bliss  of  the  present. 

The  dreaded  parting  came.  The 
beautiful  tryst  ended  one  starry  Sep 
tember  night.  As  Paul  looked  into  the 
eyes  of  his  darling,  and  then  irresolute 
ly  set  his  face  toward  the  world,  he  felt 
himself  to  be  a  very  miserable  fellow, 
and,  as  he  couldn't  have  any  thing  as 
he  wanted  it,  romantically  wished  him 
self  dead.  Before  that  extreme  moment 
came,  however,  caution  and  prudence 
had  reminded  him  that  some  practical 
arrangement  must  be  made  even  by  a 
man  desperately  in  love,  while  he  loved 


A  WOMAN'S  RIGHT. 


amid  opposition  and  difficulties.  Thus, 
when  he  left  Hillside  the  last  time,  the 
definite  understanding  with  both  father 
and  mother  was,  that  Paul  and  Eirene 
were  affianced,  but  that,  in  considera 
tion  of  the  fact  that  he  was  not  estab 
lished  in  his  profession,  and  the  more 
troublesome  fact  that  his  mother  would 
bitterly  oppose  it,  the  engagement  was 
to  be  kept  secret  for  a  year.  Then, 
Paul  declared  he  would  be  indepen 
dent,  and  able  to  declare  it  to  the 
whole  world. 

"  Only  a  year  !  Only  one  little  year, 
my  darling !  "  said  Paul,  "  and  then,  no 
more  hard  work  and  loneliness.  I  shall 
carry  you  from  both,  and  you  will  be 
my  wife." 

TABITHA  MALLANE'S  STRATEGY. 

Gouty  old  uncles  and  grumpy  old 
aunts  do  sometimes  die  in  season  to 
satisfy  their  anxiously-waiting  relatives. 
At  least,  old  Comfort  Bard  died  just  in 
the  nick  of  time  to  please  her  niece 
Tabitha.  In  midwinter  Aunt  Comfort 
passed  away,  and,  before  the  coming  of 
Spring,  her  share  of  the  Bard  home 
stead,  and  a  very  considerable  legacy, 
had  passed  into  the  eager  hands  of 
Tabitha  Mallane.  Long  before  that 
hour,  as  she  moved  about  her  house 
hold,  or  as  ehe  sat  before  the  smoulder 
ing  fire,  while  John  Mallane  slept,  she 
had  laid  her  plans  and  decided  what 
she  would  do  with  it.  Once  she  could 
have  had  but  one  thought  concerning 
it.  She  would  simply  have  given  it  to 
John  Mallane,  with  the  words,  "  Here, 
father  ;  put  it  into  the  business,  and  se 
cure  the  interest  for  the  children."  But 
her  anxiety  for  the  children  together 
was  absorbed  and  forgotten  in  her  pas 
sion  concerning  one.  Paul  had  already 
entered  an  old  and  noted  law-office  in 
Boston  as  the  junior  partner.  It  already 
had  its  "  solid  man,"  its  learned  man, 
and  was  glad  to  add,  as  a  special  orna 
ment,  a  young  and  eloquent  advocate. 
All  Bnsyville  declared  this  to  be  a  great 
opening  for  Paul  Mallane,  though  it 
hastened  to  add,  "  He's  one  of  the 
lucky  ones.  He  always  gets  what  he 
wants." 


Tabitha  Mallane  resolved  that  he 
should  come  to  Busy  ville  in  his  summer 
vacation,  and,  for  the  first  time  in  his 
life,  find  his  home,  in  its  aspect,  nearer 
at  least  to  what  he  wished  it  to  be. 
She  resolved  on  many  other  things,  of 
which  we  shall  presently  be  made 
aware.  If  women  had  spent  one  tenth 
of  the  time  and  intellect  in  helping 
each  other,  which  they  have  devoted  to 
outwitting  and  destroying  each  other, 
what  a  different  world  this  would  be  ! 
If  the  same  talent  for  management  and 
diplomacy,  which  they  so  often  use  to 
bring  about  positive  and  fatal  results 
in  trivial  affairs,  they  had  applied  to 
noble  ends,  how  much  less  cause  there 
would  be  to  bemoan  the  triviality  and 
personal  slavery  of  woman — a  trivial 
ity  and  slavery  for  w^hich  woman  her 
self  is  as  responsible  as  man. 

In  the  early  Spring  days,  Eirene  be 
gan  to  notice  most  unusual  indications 
about  the  white  house  across  the  street. 
It  was  thronged  with  workmen  within 
and  without.  In  due  time,  the  boxy 
parlor  and  a  more  boxy  bed-room,  and 
the  yellow  sitting-room,  were  thrown 
into  one  drawing-room,  with  graceful 
sliding-doors ;  the  kitchen  was  enlarged 
into  a  dining-room,  and  a  new  and 
remote  kitchen  was  commenced  to  be 
built  in  the  rear  of  all.  The  little  old 
outlooks  were  lengthened  into  long 
French  windows  opening  into  a  veran 
da,  which  extended  entirely  around 
the  house.  This  transformation  was 
sufficiently  wonderful ;  but  when  a 
strange  man  came  and  began  to  meta 
morphose  the  garden,  the  wonder  was 
complete.  Nobody  outside  of  her  own 
heart  knew  what  a  pang  it  cost  Tabi 
tha  Mallane  to  give  up  her  garden.  It 
was  hard  enough  to  relinquish  the  yel 
low  sitting-room,  and  the  old  cradle  in 
which  all  her  babies  had  been  rocked  ; 
but  it  was  harder  still  to  give  up  that 
dear  plot  of  ground,  with  its  straight 
beds  of  beets,  peas,  and  lettuce,  where 
in  she  had  so  long  gathered  her  own 
fresh  vegetables ;  wherein,  when  ni>- 
body  was  looking,  she  had  so  often 
turned  up,  with  her  own  hands,  from 
the  moist  mould,  new  potatoes  for  din- 


EIKE.NE  : 


ner.  Through  all  her  weary  house 
keeping,  child-nursing  years,  it  had 
given  her  her  one  pastime — this  gar 
den  ;  it  was  the  one  bond  between  her 
and  nature.  It  had  been  such  a  pleas 
ure  in  the  summer  evenings,  with  her 
children  about  her,  to  weed  these  beds 
— to  water  her  sturdy  sweet-williams 
and  hollyhocks,  and  watch  them  grow. 
But  Paul  detested  them  all,  and  they 
must  be  annihilated.  Thus  the  plots 
were  rolled  even  with  the  ground,  cov 
ered  with  turf,  and  trimmed  with  nar 
row  earth-borders,  for  verbenas,  migno 
nette,  and  other  delicate  flowers.  Rus 
tic  seats  were  placed  under  the  old 
cherry  and  apricot  trees,  and  garden 
vases  for  trailing  plants  were  set  out  in 
the  grass,  the  crowning  marvel  to  the 
eyes  of  the  factory  folk.  The  last  sac 
rifice  laid  on  the  altar  of  modern 
"style"  and  maternal  love  and  schem 
ing,  was  the  white  paint  of  the  house 
itself.  All  the  old  mansions  and  home 
steads  of  Bus;  ville  had  been  painted 
white,  with  bright,  blinking  green 
blinds — Tubitha  Mallane's  delight.  But, 
ever  since  Paul  had  read  Dickens' 
"  Notes,"  the  vivid  brightness  of  red, 
white,  and  green  had  been  an  offence  in 
his  sight.  Thus  the  painters  ascended 
their  ladders,  and  the  white  went  under 
a  pale  tea-color,  with  heavy  cappings 
of  dark  wood.  When  all  was  complet 
ed,  certainly  no  accusation  could  be 
brought  against  the  house  and  its  gar 
den.  The  only  trouble  with  it  now 
was,  that  it  was  not  in  harmony  with 
its  surroundings.  It  should  have  stood 
isolated,  amid  its  own  wide  grounds. 
It  looked  out  of  place  on  a  narrow 
street,  opposite  the  ugly  factories,  and 
Seth  Goodlove's  little  unpainted,  un 
sheltered  domicile. 

While  these  changes  were  proceeding 
toward  completion,  Paul  was  surprised, 
one  morning,  by  the  announcement,  at 
his  Cambridge  quarters,  that  a  lady 
wished  to  see  him.  He  was  still  more 
surprised  when,  on  entering  his  parlor, 
he  was  confronted  by  his  mother.  He 
did  not  recognize  her  at  the  first 
glance ;  she  looked  so  different,  in  her 
ladylike  gray  travelling  suit,  from  the 


care-worn  woman  in  a  wrapper  in  the 
yellow  sitting-room  at  home. 

"  Why,  mother !  what  brought  you 
here  ? "  said  Paul,  in  a  really  hearty 
tone,  as,  taking  in  her  appearance,  he  at 
once  saw  that  she  really  looked  well,  and 
that  he  need  not  be  ashamed  of  her. 

"  You,  Paul !  "  answered  his  mother, 
in  a  cheerful  voice,  so  different  from  her 
Busyville  tone.  "  Sit  down,  and  I  will 
tell  you  all  about  it." 

He  felt  at  once  as  if  he  were  in  the 
Busyville  sitting-room,  now  he  was  told 
to  sit  down  and  to  listen ;  but  he  did  as 
he  was  bidden.  Then,  even  the  hand 
some  gray  travelling  suit  and  the  be 
coming  bonnet  could  not  keep  Mrs. 
Tabitha  from  bending  forward  with  a 
little  swaying  motion,  as  if  she  were 
still  rocking  the  cradle  and  talking  to 
Paul  acrosss  it. 

"  I'll  sit  down,  mother,  if  you'll  sit 
up,"  said  Paul,  laughing  ;  "  but  don't, 
I  beg  of  you,  rock  the  cradle  at  me  in 
Cambridge." 

"  No ;  I'll  do  just  as  you  want  me 
to,"  said  Mrs.  Mallane,  straightening. 
"  I've  come  to  surprise  and  to  please 
you,  and  I'm  going  to  do  it.  Of  course, 
you  know  about  Aunt  Comfort's  lega 
cy  ;  but  you  don't  know  what  I've  done 
with  it.  You'll  never  be  annoyed  again 
with  the  old  sitting-room  and  the  oak 
paper,  nor  with  the  shabbiness  of  your 
home,  Paul.  You  have  no  idea  how 
much  feeling  I  had  about  it  when  I 
could  not  help  it.  I  knew  how  hard  it 
was,  going  in  the  society  you  do,  and 
being  invited  to  such  places,  never  to 
be  able  to  return  such  hospitality,  be 
cause  you  were  ashamed  of  your  fath 
er's  house.  You  wonri  know  it  when 
you  see  it.  I  haven't  trusted  to  my 
own  taste  in  any  respect — for  you  know 
I  like  the  old  things  best,  because  I've 
had  them  all  my  life — but  I  sent  for  the 
architect  who  built  Squire  Arnott's 
house,  which  you  like  so  well,  and  for 
the  man  who  laid  out  his  grounds,  and 
they  have  left  nothing  as  it  was  before. 
It's  handsomer  than  you  can  think. 
Father  says  that  it's  altogether  too 
handsome  for  us,  and  that  I'm  crazy,  or 
I  wouldn't  strike  out  from  the  old, 


I 


A  WOMAN'S  RIGHT. 


89 


plain  way,  and  use  up  so  much  money, 
instead  of  putting  it  in  the  business. 
It's  for  you,  Paul.  I  was  determined 
that  once,  before  you  really  set  up  for 
yourself,  you  could  come  to  a  home  into 
which  you  would  not  be  ashamed  to 
ask  any  friend  you  have.  There's  Mr. 
Prescott,  who  did  so  much  to  introduce 
you  into  the  law-office — you're  under 
obligation  to  him ;  and  Miss  Prescott, 
and  Miss  Maynard,  or  any  one  you 
please.  I  shall  be  ready  for  them  be 
fore  August.  And  I've  come  down  to 
have  you  select  the  furniture  and  car 
pets  with  me ;  you  shall  have  them  just 
as  you  like,  Paul." 

Paul  was  a  good  deal  astonished,  but 
did  not  look  so  supremely  delighted  as 
his  mother  hoped  that  he  would. 

His  first  thought  was  of  Eirene. 
"  This  new  splendor  will  only  shut  her 
out  more  completely — poor  little  girl !  " 
he  said  to  himself.  "  I've  wanted  it 
bad  enough.  Strange  I  couldn't  have 
it  till  it  can  be  of  no  use  to  me  1  Still, 
I  would  like  to  show  the  Prescotts  that 
I  have  no  reason  to  be  ashamed  of  my 
home,  as  I  know  they  think  I  have.  It 
would  have  been  a  good  deal  kinder  to 
have  given  me  the  money  to  have  begun 
housekeeping  with — Eirene  and  I." 

'"  I  want  you  to  introduce  me  to  the 
Prescotts,  Paul,"  said  Mrs.  Mallane.  "  I 
would  like  to  go  with  you  to  Marlboro 
Hill." 

"  I  will  bring  Dick  to  see  you,"  an 
swered  Paul.  "  But  you  are  my  moth 
er,  and  a  stranger,"  he  added,  in  an 
imperial  tone.  "  Miss  Prescott  must  call 
upon  you  before  you  visit  Marlboro  Hill." 

After  expressing  her  approbation  of 
his  handsome  rooms,  Mrs.  Mallane  pro 
posed  to  return  to  the  city  and  begin 
her  momentous  shopping.  Paul,  nam 
ing  an  hour  when  he  would  join  her, 
proceeded  to  escort  her  to  the  cars.  On 
their  way  they  met  Dick  Prescott,  who 
was  duly  presented  to  Paul's  mother. 
He  addressed  her  with  marked  defer 
ence,  adding  that  he  would  do  himself 
the  honor  to  call  with  his  sister.  They 
came,  the  next  afternoon,  in  the  stately 
'rescott  barouche,  Miss  Isabella  bring- 
with  her  her  daintiest  costume  and 


most  bewitching  manners.  She  was 
most  effusive,  if  not  "  gushing,"  to  Mrs. 
Mallane.  She  was  "  so  charmed,  so  de 
lighted,  to  meet  Mrs.  Mallane  1  Oh, 
how  much  you  look  like  your  son  !  " 
she  exclaimed.  "  I  have  heard  Mr.  Mal 
lane  speak  so  often  of  his  mother,  I  feel 
as  if  I  had  known  you  always.  And 
you  will  come  out  to  Marlboro  ?  Oh, 
do  1  Drive  out  in  the  early  evening, 
and  we  will  take  tea  on  the  lawn.  It 
will  be  so  lovely  !  Please  say  you  will. 
I  shall  be  so  disappointed  if  you  don't." 

There  was  something  in  Tabitha  Mal 
lane  which  responded  to  all  this.  It 
was  from  his  mother  that  Paul  had  in 
herited  his  love  for  fine  equipages  and 
stately  houses,  for  the  eclat  and  para 
phernalia  of  wealth  and  place.  To  be 
sure,  circumstances  had  held  it  sup 
pressed  in  her  nature  ;  but,  in  spite  of 
many  years  of  drudging  and  of  stock 
ing-darning,  it  was  there.  With  its 
first  opportunity,  the  dormant  passion 
sprang  alert  into  life.  It  pleased  her 
that  her  callers  came  in  an  elegant  car 
riage,  with  liveried  servants.  But,  with 
all  this  conscious  pleasure,  there  was  no 
vulgar  betrayal  of  it.  As  she  received 
her  visitors,  she  looked  not  at  all  out 
of  place,  nor  did  she  feel  that  she  was. 
She  felt  as  perfectly  at  home  in  her 
heavy  black  silk,  as  if  Aunt  Comfort 
had  never  owned  it  or  worn  it,  or  as  if 
she  herself  had  never  dug  new  potatoes 
for  dinner.  She  looked  pleased,  but 
not  honored,  nor  did  she  consider  her 
self  to  be.  What  if  she  did  not  have 
all  the  modern  airs  and  graces  ?  She 
had  a  son ;  and,  while  she  had  him, 
and  he  was  both  airy,  graceful,  and  tal 
ented,  she  was  well  aware  that  she 
would  never  be  treated  as  a  secondary 
personage,  at  least  by  marriageable 
young  ladies. 

Paul  drove  his  mother  out  to  Marl 
boro  in  fine  state.  They  took  tea  on 
the  lawn,  and  it  was  all  "  so  lovely ! " 
as  Bella  Prescott  continually  exclaimed. 
Afterwards  Dick  and  Paul  sauntered 
off  to  smoke  their  cigars,  and  the  two 
ladies  were  left  together.  Then,  as 
Tabitha  Mallane  looked  across  its  green 
spaces  and  down  its  broad  avenues,  she 


90 


EIKENK : 


made  her  first  real  estimate  of  Marlboro 
Hill.  It  was  one  of  the  most  beautiful 
and  stately  of  thoso  suburban  homes 
which  make  the  environs  of  Boston  so 
charming.  But  it  was  not  the  red  sun 
set  through  the  green  of  immemorial 
elms,  flushing  the  stone  of  the  old  an 
cestral  house  with  the  bloom  of  vivid 
rose,  which  attracted  her  attention. 
What  she  saw  was  the  solidity,  the 
age,  the  wealth,  and  vast  respectability 
reflected  in  its  walls.  She  saw  also,  as 
distinctly  as  Eireue  beheld  her  mother's 
new  gown  and  her  father's  new  horse, 
Paul  driving  up  this  avenue  of  elms  be 
hind  a  pair  of  stately  bays — her  Paul 
coming  home  in  the  evening  sunlight, 
the  master  of  Marlboro  Hill!  She 
looked  across  the  lawn,  with  its  foun 
tains  and  flowers,  to  the  park,  where 
some  tame  deer  were  grazing  beside  a 
mimic  lake ;  and,  as  she  looked,  she 
wondered  how,  for  so  many  years,  she 
had  thought  Squire  Blane's  squatty 
Chouse  a  fine  mansion,  his  tucked-up 
garden  "  grounds,"  or  his  daughter 
Tilly,  a  match  for  Paul ! 

It  was  a  long,  long  look  which  she 
had  given  to  Marlboro  with  her  exact 
ing  eyes.  Meanwhile,  Isabella  Prescott 
had  been  taking  in  Mrs.  Mallane  with  a 
much  smaller  but  quite  as  keen  a  pair. 

"  I  don't  think  that  I  made  allowance 
enough  for  the  boy,"  said  Mrs.  Tabitha 
to  herselfj  "  when  he  came  home  and 
felt  so  dissatisfied  with  all  he  saw  there, 
compared  with  what  he  had  seen  here  ; 
but  then,  I  couldn't  have  any  idea  of 
the  contrast  as  I  see  it  now." — "  I  am 
thinking  what  a  happy  girl  you  are,  to 
be  the  free  mistress  of  such  a  beautiful 
home,"  she  said  to  Bella. 

"  Yes,  Marlboro  is  beautiful,  I  sup 
pose  ;  every  body  says  so.  But  it  don't 
look  to  me  as  it  does  to  other  people, 
because  I  have  always  lived  here,  per 
haps.  Then,  I  get  so  tired  looking 
after  it,  and  so  lonesome.  Dear  Mrs. 
Mallane,  what  is  any  home  without  a 
mother?"  murmured  the  maiden,  with 
two  bright  tears  twinkling  in  her  little 
eyes.  "  Dick  is  good  to  me — every 
body's  kind ;  but  oh !  if  you  could 
know  how  I  want  a  mother ! " 


"  Dear  child,  you  little  know  the 
feeling  of  a  mother's  heart,"  answered 
Mrs.  Tabitha,  in  'her  most  pathetic 
quaver.  "  It  goes  straight  to  mine  to 
hear  you  say  so.  Being  the  mother  of 
my  Grace,  gives  me  a  mother's  feeling 
for  every  other  young  girl.  Yes,  I  see 
how  it  is :  with  every  thing  else  in  the 
world,  you  haven't  a  mother.  You  must 
see  some  sad  hours,  my  child." 

"  Oh,  very  sad !  It  would  be  very 
different  if  I  had  a  sister;  but  I  haven't 
even  a  sister." 

"  Well,  my  dear,  you  must  come  and 
visit  Grace.  She  has  no  sister  either, 
near  her  own  age.  I'm  sure  you'd  take 
to  each  other  directly.  She  knows 
nothing  of  the  world  of  society,  and 
you  know  all  about  it ;  so  you'd  be 
fresh  to  each  other,  and  I  could  be 
mother  to  both.  How  I  wish  you  could 
be  persuaded  to  visit  us  I  " 

"  Oh,  I  don't  need  any  persuading ; 
it  would  delight  me  to  come  !  I  can't 
tell  you,  Mrs.  Mallane,  how  I  long  to 
go  to  some  quiet  spot  this  summer  ! 
We've  been  to  the  White  Hills,  to  Ni 
agara,  Saratoga,  and  everywhere,  and 
I'm  tired  of  all.  I'd  like  to  go  and  see 
something  that  I  never  saw  before.  I've 
been  thinking  of  asking  Dick  to  take 
board  in  some  retired  farm-house,  where 
I  shouldn't  have  to  make  four  toilettes 
a-day  in  hot  weather.  You've  no  idea 
what  a  bore  it  is,  Mrs.  Mallane." 

Mrs.  Tabitha  was  sure  she  did  not,  as 
the  outline  of  her  old  slimmer  sacque 
and  down-at-the-heel  slippers  ran  be 
fore  her  mental  eyes.  Then  she  gave  a 
little  sigh,  for  she  thought  that,  if  this 
guest  came,  she  must  relinquish  them. 

"  Our  village  is  a  bustling  little 
place,"  she  said,  "  but  a  rural  country 
lies  all  around  it.  In  half  an  hour  I 
can  take  you  to  a  perfection  of  a  farm 
house — the  one  in  which  I  was  born. 
It  has  been  in  our  family  a  hundred 
years." 

"  How  I  should  delight  to  see  it,  and 
Grace !  Do  tell  me  about  her,  Mrs. 
Mallane  !  Does  she  look  like  you  \ 
Oh,  I'm  sure  we  should  be  like  sisters ! 
How  I  want  to  see  her !  How  sweet  in 
you  to  invite  me  I  and  how  lovely  it 


1870.J 


A  WOMAN'S  RIGHT. 


91 


will  be  to  go  !  Ifs  so  different  being 
with  one's  friends,  from  being  with, 
.people  in  whom  one  takes  no  interest." 

'•  Yes,  I  think  so,"  said  Mrs.  Mallano, 
"  even  if  your  friends  can  give  you 
less  than  strangers.  Of  course,  you 
know,  Miss  Prescott,  that  we  are  quiet 
country  people,  and  live  in  a  very  plain 
way — not  at  all  in  your  style.  You  will 
find  every  thing  simple  and  homely. 
You  must  come  prepared  for  that.  But 
you  say  you  want  something  different 
from  any  thing  you've  had  before.  You 
will  find  it  with  us,  and  a  daughter's 
welcome ;  but  remember,  we  live  in  a 
very  plain  way."  And,  as  she  uttered 
these  words,  Mrs.  Tabitha  felt  an  in 
ward  satisfaction  in  the  thought  that, 
after  so  much  depreciation,  when  she 
did  come,  Miss  Prescott  would  be  as 
tonished  to  find  every  thing  so  much 
finer  than  she  had  expected. 

Dick  and  Paul  appearing  at  this 
juncture,  Bella  called  out,  "  Dear  Dick, 
Mrs.  Mallane  has  invited  me  to  visit 
her,  and  I'm  going.  I  shall  see  Grace, 
and  the  farm-house  that  has  been  in  the 
family  a  hundred  years.  Won't  it  be 
lovely  ? " 

"  Altogether  lovely — that  is,  it  would 
be,  if  Mrs.  Mallaue  had  invited  me  too. 
I  don't  want  to  be  left  out." 

;<  And  we  wouldn't  leave  you  out  for 
the  world,"  said  delighted  Mrs.  Tabi 
tha,  "  if  you  think  you  could  find  any 
pleasure  with  us.  I  left  Paul  to  decide 
that ;  he  is  so  well  acquainted  with 
your  tastes.  If  you  like  fishing,  there 
are  shoals  in  our  river,  and  trout  in  the 
brooks,  not  six  miles  away." 

"  I  doat  on  fishing,  and  so  does  Dick. 
How  sweet,  how  kind  you  are,  Mrs. 
Ma!  lane  !  "  exclaimed  Bella,  in  her  most 
guileless  and  gushing  tone,  leaning 
toward  Mrs.  Tabitha  as  if  she  were 
going  to  embrace  her  on  the  spot. 
Paul,  looking  on,  said  to  himself, 
"  This  is  the  best-played  game  that  I 
ever  saw,  if  it  is  a  game.  What's  the 
deceit  of  the  devil  to  that  of  an  artful 
woman  ?  A  little  of  this  kindness  of 
mother's  had  better  have  been  bestowed 
somewhere  else,  in  my  opinion."  And 
he  felt  bitter,  as  he  saw,  in  the  distance, 


a  drooping  head  and  a  fair,  sad  face. 
Yet,  an  instant  after,  a  sensation  of 
pleasure  and  triumph  rose  in  him,  as  he 
looked  and  saw  Isabella  Prescott  nes 
tled  close  to  his  mother's  side.  She 
made  quite  a  pretty  picture,  sitting 
there  under  the  sunset  trees.  Then, 
there  was  satisfaction  as  well  as  won 
der  in  seeing  his  mother  looking  quite 
the  lady  of  Marlboro,  with  her  stately 
head  and  lustrous  silk.  If  she  had 
always  looked  like  this,  Paul  felt  cer 
tain  that  he  never  could  have  rebelled 
against  her  as  he  had  done  in  the  past. 

Half  an  hour  later,  while  Paul  and 
his  mother  were  riding  toward  the  city, 
each  silent  with  their  own  thoughts, 
Isabella  Prescott  still  sat  under  the 
trees  entertaining  her  brother. 

"  If  you  could  only  have  seen  it, 
Dick — the  old  lady's  look  !  She  took 
an  inventory  of  the  entire  place,  before 
she  spoke  a  word.  Then,  she  said  I 
must  be  a  happy  girl  to  have  such  a 
home.  I  made  just  the  reply  she  want 
ed  me  to  :  I  said,  I  would  be  happy  if 
I  only  had  a  mother !  Then,  of  course, 
she  offered  to  be  my  mother,  with  the 
society  of  her  daughter  Grace.  It  grew 
very  affecting.  Don't  you  see,  Dick,  it 
was  just  like  a  story-book.  Yes,  of  one 
thing  I  may  say  I  am  certain  :  that  the 
lady  from  the  country  has  set  her  heart 

and  mind  on  becoming  my  mother 

in-law  ! " 

"  Well,  if  her  son  hadn't  piqued  your 
vanity  so  awfully,  she  would  have  made 
it  out." 

"  That's  your  opinion,  is  it,  Dick  ? " 

"  It  is.  But,  as  matters  are,  what 
under  heaven  is  going  to  take  you  up 
to  that  furnace  in  the  country  for  a 
visit  ?  I  saw  you  had  some  game  on 
hand,  and  thought  I  wouldn't  spoil  it ; 
but  now,  I'd  like  to  know  what  it's  all 
about.  Mallane  has  gone  and  made  an 
ass  of  himself — engaged  himself  to  that 
girl.  He  as  good  as  owned  it  to  me. 
So  you  had  better  let  him  alone.  I 
have  other  designs  for  you." 

"  You  have  ?  Well,  I'll  inquire  what 
they  are,  when  I've  carried  out  my  own. 
As  for  leaving  Paul  Mallane  alone, 
that's  just  what  I  don't  intend  to  do." 


EIHEXE : 


"  But  what  are  you  ^oing  up  to  that 
blistering  hole  of  a  factory-village  for? 
Paul  does  not  stay  there  three  days  at 
a  time,  if  he  can  help  it." 

"  Well,  the  first  thing  I'm  going  for 
is  to  gratify  my  curiosity.  I  want  to 
see  the  native  surroundings  of  my  gen 
tleman.  I  want  to  see  that  farm-house. 
Oh,  Dick,  you  ought  to  have  heard  the 
tone  with  which  la,  mere  said,  '  It  has 
been  in  our  family  a  hundred  years.' 
Then,  I  want  to  see — and  intend  to  see 
— the  shop-girl.  What  I  mean  to  do,  is, 
to  punish  her ;  to  punish  her  is  my  ob 
ject,  and  I  shall  do  it." 

As  she  mentioned  the  shop-girl, 
Bella's  voice  suddenly  grew  quick  and 
sharp.  Dick  looked  up.  Her  thin  lips 


were  white,  and  her  little  eyes  were 
fixed  and  beady  as  a  snake's. 

No  man  is  bad  enough  to  enjoy  such 
a  manifestation  in  his  sister. 

"  Come,  Bell,"  he  said,  "  don't  look 
like  that.  The  shop-girl  isn't  worth 
your  spite.  I'm  up  to  such  things  my 
self ;  but  you  are  a  woman,  and  should 
be  in  better  business." 

"  I  don't  care,"  said  Bella,  angrily. 
"  Being  a  woman  don't  make  it  any 
pleasanter  to  be  snubbed,  nor  any  easier 
to  bear  it.  Think  of  a  Prescott  ever 
having  been  put  one  side  for  a  thing 
like  that !  There's  no  use  in  talking, 
Dick ;  I  shall  make  the  visit.  I  shall 
see  the  shop-girl,  and  I  shall  punish  her. 
I  shall  catch  a  fish,  but  not  in  the  river." 


A  WOMAN'S  RI&HT. 

r 


93 


A    WOMAN'S    RIGHT. 
IX. 


WHAT    CAME    OF   PAUL'S   WOOINQ. 

OFTENER  than  we  think,  even  -while 
a  man  sincerely  loves  a  woman,  if  he 
finds  himself  bound  to  her  by  an  irrevo 
cable  vow,  it  chafes  him  like  a  fetter, 
and  he  instinctively  begins  to  lament 
his  lost  liberty — at  first,  perhaps,  almost 
unconsciously,  and  only  while  he  finds 
himself  restrained  and  held  back  by  a 
moral  obligation  from  some  old  pastime 
or  pleasure,  in  which,  until  now,  he  has 
always  felt  perfect  freedom  to  indulge. 
For  Paul  Mallane  to  come  to  a  sudden 
consciousness  that  he  had  no  longer  a 
right  to  flirt  with  every  woman  who 
would  flirt  with  him,  was,  indeed,  a 
new  sensation.  To  do  him  justice, 
through  the  entire  winter  he  had  no 
desire  to  do  so.  He  had  never  been  so 
thoroughly  and  honorably  busy  as  he 
was  now.  His  graduation  from  the 
law-school  reflected  great  credit  upon 
himself  and  his  friends.  He  was  just 
about  entering  a  law-firm,  which  offered 
him  the  opportunity  of  complete  suc 
cess  in  his  profession.  He  was  going 
to  pay  his  debts.  He  was  going  to  be 
married  to  the  only  girl  he  had  ever 
loved.  He  was  going  to  make  his  own 
home  without  any  body's  assistance. 
He  had  never  felt  himself  to  be  so 
much  of  a  man,  and  he  never  had  been 
so  much  of  a  man  before.  He  hung 
Eirene's  picture  over  the  table  where 
he  sat  at  work,  and,  when  he  felt  any 
of  his  old  lawless  impulses  stirring  him, 
any  temptation  from  within  or  without, 
he  looked  at  that  face,  and  they  all 
died.  September,  that  divine  Septem 
ber  of  pure  love,  came  back ;  he  breathed 
again  in  her  presence  ;  he  saw  the  look 
in  her  eyes,  he  felt  the  touch  of  her 
hand  ;  he  was  with  her  once  more ; 
and,  being  with  her  and  loving  her  as 
he  did,  he  resolutely  turned  from  the 
rorld  of  pleasure  in  which  he  had  so 


long  lived,  sat  down,  and  went  on  with 
his  work.  He  took  an  immense  amount 
of  credit  to  himself  for  all  this.  Just 
now,  nobody  admired  Paul  so  much  as 
Paul  admired  himself.  He  felt  sure 
that  he  was  making  tremendous  sacri 
fices  for  the  sake  of  his  love,  and  felt 
proud  of  himself  beyond  expression  to 
think  that  he,  Paul  Mallane,  was  able 
to  do  it.  In  writing  to  Eirene,  he  took 
pains  to  impress  faithfully  upon  her 
mind  the  great  sacrifice  that  he  made 
and  the  untold  temptation  which  he  re 
sisted  for  her  sake.  He  thought  it 
would  increase  the  value  of  his  love, 
the  more  she  realized  the  innumerable 
benefits  which  he  relinquished  on  its 
behalf.  Eirene,  in  the  crowded  shop 
and  in  Seth  Goodlove's  bare  little  cham 
ber,  did  marvel  more  and  more  that 
such  a  transcendent  gift  should  have 
come  to  her.  Every  letter  that  she  re 
ceived  from  Paul  made  it  seem  more 
wonderful  and  more  enchanting  that 
such  a  god  could  stoop  to  her  lowly 
estate,  to  love  her  1  But  when,  at 
Christmas,  Paul  came  up  to  Busyville, 
and,  with  the  certain  knowledge  that 
his  mother  was  watching  him  from  the 
window,  knocked  deliberately  at  Seth 
Goodlove's  door,  and  spent  at  least  two 
hours  visiting  with  Eirene  in  the  best 
Goodlove  "  front  room,"  with  the  smoke 
perversely  blowing  out  of  the  "  dum 
my  "  stove  till  it  nearly  extinguished 
their  four  eyes ;  and  when,  with  the 
eyes  of  Busyville  fixed  upon  him,  he 
escorted  Eirene  to  church  in  open  day, 
Paul's  admiration  of  himself  reached 
its  climax.  There  might  be  more  awful 
tests  to  a  man's  love,  but  they  were  un 
known  to  Paul  Mallane.  The  latter 
sight — that  of  Paul  Mallane  escorting 
a  shop-girl  to  church — drove  the  mind 
of  Busyville  wild.  The  maidens  of  the 
mansion-houses  regarded  it  as  a  per- 


94 


EIEENK  : 


sonal  injury,  if  not  an  insult.  The 
maidens  of  the  shops,  knowing  that  no 
mortal  power  could  induce  him  to  es 
cort  one  of  them,  regarded  it  as  a  base 
action  that  he  should  walk  to  church 
with  Eirene  Vale.  "  That  was  the  rea 
son,  was  it,,  that  she  never  went  with 
shop-people,  and  spent  her  time  study- 
in'  ?  She  intended  to  catch  the  boss' 
son— the  minx !" 

A  deep  distrust  of  Paul  Mallane  per 
vaded  the  Busyville  mind.  It  had  con 
templated  and  pronounced  upon  his 
flirtations  since  he  was  a  boy  in  the 
Busyville  Academy.  Hitherto  it  had 
known  them  to  be  of  a  very  unstable, 
if  not  doubtful,  character ;  and  it  natu 
rally  pronounced  that  this  one,  of  all 
others,  could  come  to  no  good. 

Deep  was  Eirene's  distress,  on  enter 
ing  the  factory  on  Monday  morning,  to 
meet  lifted  shoulders,  averted  eyes,  and 
scornful  glances,  from  those  with  whom 
she  had  always  been  used  to  exchange 
daily  courtesies.  All  day  she  was  made 
the  subject  of  mysterious  looks  and 
whisperings ;  the  air  was  full  of  dis 
trust  and  mystery ;  and  before  night, 
without  knowing  wherefore,  she  felt 
that  she  was  being  treated  like  a  cul 
prit.  As  for  Tilda  Stade,  awful  was 
her  silence.  Nothing  could  be  more 
awful,  except  the  silence  of  Tabitha 
Mallane  ;  for,  the  moment  that  she  wit 
nessed  Paul  knock  at  Seth  Goodlove's 
door,  she  resolved  to  be  silent,  and  in 
silence  to  execute  a  strategic  movement, 
in  a  small  way,  worthy  of  Napoleon. 
In  that  moment  Aunt  Comfort's  legacy 
was  consecrated  to  the  annihilation  of 
the  girl  across  the  street ;  the  vegetable 
garden  was  sacrificed,  and  the  wfaite 
house  painted  tea-green. 

If  Paul's  ardor  and  steadfastness  of 
devotion  suffered  any  diminution  after 
his  return  to  Boston,  he  was  not  con 
scious  of  it.  To  be  sure,  there  was  a 
difference — and  he  felt  it — between  love- 
making  beside  a  lovely  river  on  a  soft 
September  day,  and  love-making  in  a 
small  room  filled  with  the  smell  of 
soup,  of  soap-suds,  and  of  smoke. 
There  was  a  charm  in  walking  with 
Eirene  along  the  grassy  road,  amid  the 


secluded  hills,  which  he  missed  walk 
ing  with  her  on  the  Busyville  street, 
with  all  Busyville  staring  at  him.  But 
Eirene  was  no  less  Eirene  because  of 
the  Busyville  eye  and  a  smoky  "  dum 
my."  The  enchantment  of  that  last 
September  had  not  yet  faded  so  far  but 
that  he  saw  it  and  felt  it,  even  through 
the  Goodlove  smells  and  smoke.  He 
looked  at  Eireue's  picture,  and  was 
comforted. 

But  a  little  more  opposition  would 
have  been  stimulating.  He  had  been 
used  to  being  opposed,  and  then  doing 
as  he  pleased.  It  had  a  depressing 
effect  on  him  to  be  let  alone.  There 
was  nothing  that  he  missed  more  than 
the  opposition  of  his  mother. 

"  If  mother  would  only  go  on  as  she 
begun,  what  a  zest  it  would  give  a  fel 
low  to  take  his  own  way  !  "  he  said. 

Then,  as  Spring  came  on,  after  a 
really  hard  winter's  work,  he  began  to 
want  "  a  little  variety  " — a  little  of  the 
exhilaration  of  comradeship  that  he  used 
to  feel  when  he  and  his  chums  went  off 
for  a  "  high  old  time."  If  they  had 
only  come  to  ask  him,  he  would  not 
have  found  it  difficult  to  have  said 
"  No  "  on  every  necessary  occasion  ; 
but  he  wanted  at  least  the  pleasure  of 
refusing.  It  piqued  him,  not  to  be  in 
vited.  His  self-admiration  was  no 
longer  a  sufficing  compensation  for 
self-denial,  much  less  for  neglect.  That 
was  indeed  a  new  state  of  affairs,  when 
Paul  Mallane  was  neglected  or  forgot 
ten  by  his  comrades.  The  truth  was, 
they  had  been  refused  so  often  during 
the  winter,  that  they  had  grown  tired 
of  coming. 

"  Let  him  alone,  boys,  for  a  while," 
said  Dick  Prescott.  "  Just  leave  him 
to  love  and  to  law,  and,  if  he  finds 
himself  left  alone  to  support  one  by 
the  other,  he'll  be  glad  enough  to  for 
sake  both.  But  not  if  you  oppose  him. 
Oppose  him,  and  he'll  hang  to  both 
with  a  death-grasp.  I  can  tell  you, 
Prince  Mallane  is  the  last  fellow  on 
earth  to  submit  to  being  left  out.  Let 
him  alone,  and  you'll  see  how  soon  he'll 
get  tired  of  it." 

If  Dick  Prescott's  words  had  been 


A  WOMAN'S  EIGHT. 


95 


false — if  Paul  could  have  gone  on  with 
the  same  perseverance  with  which  he 
began — he  and  Eirene  would  have  been 
married  ;  they  would  have  "  lived  hap 
py  ever  afterwards,"  and  this  story 
would  never  have  been  written. 

Alas  for  love,  when  the  mind  begins 
to  assure  the  heart  that  it  is  unchanged 
— that  it  is  as  fresh,  as  fervent,  as  abso 
lute,  and  as  all-sufficing,  as  it  used  to 
be  I  This  very  assurance  is  born  of  a 
doubt.  The  all-satisfying  love  can  nei 
ther  be  questioned  nor  assured ;  it  is 
sufficient  unto  itself  and  unto  all  things. 

Perhaps  it  was  not  Paul's  fault  that 
his  mind  was  facile  and  mercurial. 

"  I  love  you,  little  girl,  just  the  same 
as  ever.  I  never  loved  you  better  than 
I  do  this  moment,"  he  said,  looking  at 
her  picture.  "  I  am  going  to  spend  my 
life  with  you,  and,  when  you  are  my 
wife,  I  am  sure  I  shall  never  feel  the 
want  of  any  other  company.  But  why 
should  I  make  a  martyr  of  myself  so 
long  before  ? " 

This  would  have  been  far  from  a  dan 
gerous  question  for  a  man  of  a  more 
equable  temperament  to  have  asked ; 
but  when  Paul  put  it,  from  the  depths 
of  a  restless  mind,  he  had  no  conscious 
ness  whatever  that  the  very  law  of  his 
moods  was  in  extremes  ;  that  the  bless 
ed  medium  of  consistency  was  some 
thing  that  he  rarely  touched,  and  never 
maintained. 

As,  in  the  winter,  he  had  secluded 
himself  from  healthy  companionship  in 
an  altogether  unnecessary  manner,  ard 
prided  himself  on  so  doing  to  a  very 
unreasonable  degree,  now,  in  the  rest 
lessness  of  reaction,  he  was  ready  to 
rush  to  an  opposite  extreme,  and  justify 
himself  for  so  doing  in  an  equally  un 
reasonable  degree. 

He  was  in  just  this  state,  really  men 
tally  tired  with  new  and  hard  work, 
and  personally  tired  of  being  left  to 
himself,  and  anxious  for  the  fresh  ex 
citement  so  indispensable  to  such  a  tem 
perament,  when  his  mother  appeared  at. 
Cambridge. 

To  this  moment,  in  the  utterly  new 
and  exquisite  consciousness  of  being 
loyal  to  one  woman,  and  this  woman 


his  promised  wife,  Paul  had  given  Miss 
Isabella  Prescott  to  understand,  by  his 
manner,  that  he  was  preoccupied ; 
whether  with  law  or  with  love,  he  left, 
for  her  to  decide ;  but,  whatever  her 
decision,  that  it  was  perfectly  useless 
for  her  to  make  further  coquettish  ad 
vances.  His  cool  indifference  piqued 
her  till  she  hated  him.  In  the  privacy 
of  her  own  room  she  indulged  in  all 
sorts  of  feminine  rages  on  his  behalf. 
She  stamped  her  feet  and  ground  her 
teeth,  and,  one  night,  after  a  party, 
frightened  Dick  nearly  out  of  his  wits 
by  taking  laudanum  enough  to  make 
her  sick,  and  by  declaring,  between  her 
spasms,  that  she  "  wanted  to  die — that 
she  would  die ;  or,  if  she  couldn't, 
that  she  would  live  only  to  punish  him 
for  snubbing  her,  and  for  sitting  in  a 
corner  all  the  evening  with  that  old 
Helena  Maynard." 

After  Mrs.  Mallane's  visit  to  Marlboro 
Hill,  Paul  'drifted  slowly  and  insensibly 
back  towards  his  old  relations  with  the 
Prescotts.  If  their  visit  to  Busyville 
had  not  been  a  settled  thing,  it  would 
have  been  different ;  but,  this  antici 
pated,  it  was  a  perpetual  reminder,  and 
a  most  fruitful  source  of  communica 
tion.  Mrs.  Mallaue  was  continually 
sending  messages  to  Bella  by  Paul, 
which,  of  course,  involved  a  visit  to 
Marlboro.  Then,  Bella  had  as  many  to 
send  back ;  and,  as  Paul  knew  it,  he 
would  often  ride  over  after  tea,  just  to 
mention  that  "  he  was  going  to  write," 
and  "  had  she  any  word  to  send  to 
mother  ?  "  Paul  understood  his  mo 
ther's  whole  game  perfectly.  He  could 
not  be  enlightened  as  to  what  the  meta 
morphosed  house  and  the  Prescott  visit 
both  meant.  There  was  a  keen  excite 
ment  in  it.  It  was  like  a  play  at  the 
theatre  ;  and,  as  it  was  only  a  play, 
Paul  enjoyed  the  exhilaration  of  being 
the  hero,  with  the  power  to  bring  it  to 
a  conclusion  to  suit  his  own  pleasure. 

Under  these  circumstances,  it  came 
to  pass  that  he  went  oftener  and  stayed 
later  and  later  at  Marlboro  Hill.  Why 
was  it  that,  when  he  returned  to  his 
room  late  at  night,  the  soft  eyes  look 
ing  down  upon  him  from  the  wall 


geemcd  to  be  full  of  tears  ?  Why  was 
it  that  he  began  to  justify  himself  to 
that  gentle  face  ? — to  declare  to  it  that 
he  loved  it  the  same  as  ever,  and  loved 
it  alone  ?— that,  in  his  heart,  all  he 
wanted  was  the  power  to  flee  with  it  to 
the  end  of  the  earth  ?  Nobody  had 
accused  him  of  other  desires  or  inten 
tions,  yet  it  seemed  to  reproach  him 
more  and  more,  until  he  felt  sometimes 
that  he  must  turn  and  run  from  it.  He 
was  conscious  that  a  spell  was  cast 
around  him.  Now  that  he  knew  what 
love  was,  he  knew  that  it  was  not  love ; 
yet  it  was  no  less  a  spell.  There  was 
fascination  in  the  fact  that  Isabella 
Prescott  had  fallen  in  love  with  him. 
"  Poor  girl,  I  pity  her ! "  he  said  to 
himself.  "  So  young,  with  so  much  to 
live  for,  with  such  opportunities  for 
choice  in  marriage,  to  think  that  she 
should  turn  from  all,  to  really  care  for 
me  !  Dear  little  Belle  !  I  did  not  think 
her  capable  of  caring  so  much  for  any 
one.  She  never  showed  any  signs  of  it 
before  ;  and  if  she  should  never  see  any 
one  else  that  she  could  love  so  well,  if 
she  should  never  marry  on  my  account, 
I  should  feel  as  if  I  had  been  the  cause 
of  destroying  her  happiness.  Well,  I'll 
make  all  the  amends  to  her  that  I  can." 

He  was  so  assiduous  in  nlaking 
amends,  and  withal  felt  so  many  self- 
reproaches  for  being  quite  so  ardent  in 
this  direction,  that  at  last  he  came  to 
glance  at  the  picture  on  the  wall  with 
an  attempt  at  reproach.  "  If  I  had  not 
been  so  unfortunate  as  to  have  loved 
you,"  he  said,  "  I  might  have  married 
naturally  and  happily  in  my  own  sphere. 
If  it  were  not  for  you,  poor  Belle  would 
not  now  be  so  miserable ;  for,  if  I  did 
not  love  you  (and  I  do),  I  could  .care 
considerably  for  her ;  she  is  certainly 
attractive." 

At  this  distance  from  Eirene,  it  made 
him  feel  more  comfortable,  some  way, 
to  think  that  she  had  marred  Bella's  life, 
and,  however  unwittingly,  was  the  cause 
of  her  unhappiness.  As  that  was  the 
case,  and  he  loved  Eirene  and  did  not 
love  Bella,  he  could  and  should  be  all 
the  more  tenderly  kind  to  her,  in  con 
sideration  of  the  affection  which  she 


lavished  upon  him.  The  supreme  Sep 
tember  of  love  faded  to  a  dream. 
The  summer  of  Marlboro  was  an  al 
luring  reality.  The  stars  above  its 
park,  the  moonlight  on  its  lake,  its 
cool,  luxurious  halls,  and  their  droop 
ing  mistress,  pallid  and  lovely  in  the 
moonlight,  were  all  of  the  present,  and, 
with  all  the  power  of  the  present,  en 
chained  Ms  imagination  and  his  senses. 

Potent,  also,  was  the  force  of  con 
trast.  Hillside — poor,  shabby  Hillside, 
with  its  unfortunate  inmates — how  did 
it  look,  compared  with  Marlboro  Hill  ? 

"  Beautiful  June !  Was  there  ever 
such  a  June  !  "  said  Eirene.  Busyville 
emerged  from  the  cold  rains  of  a  Mas 
sachusetts  May  a  transfigured  Busy 
ville.  The  great  elms  stretched  their 
wide  arras  and  covered  with  greenery 
the  staring  sharpness  and  whiteness  of 
its  houses ;  they  wove  cool  roofs  of 
shadow  above  the  village-streets ;  they 
joined  the  willows  in  the  meadow 
along  the  river's  side,  and  made  a  per 
fect  embowered  arcade  of  Lover's  Walk. 
Almost  every  village  has  its  Lover's 
Walk.  This  of  Busyville  was  the  only 
perfect  thing  in  it.  In  this  gossiping 
town,  strange  to  say,  it  was  without  re 
proach  ;  probably  because  the  village- 
folk  were  too  prosaic  to  people  it  with 
ghosts  and  tragedies.  It  was  a  deco 
rous  and.  friendly  Lover's  Walk,  which 
divided  its  delicious  shade  with  the 
young  academicians  who  walked  there 
studying  their  lessons,  with  youths  and 
maidens  who  walked  there  whispering 
love,  and  with  bands  of  shouting  chil 
dren  who  rushed  through  it,  "  going  a- 
berrying  "  the  nearest  way.  Yet,  what 
stories  it  might  have  told,  this  little 
grass-bordered  path,  running  in  and  out 
among  the  elms  and  willows,  beginning 
with  a  village-street,  and  ending  where 
the  river  ran  dark  and  deep  and  alone  ! 

It  must  be  confessed  that,  in  this 
month  of  June,  Eirene  neglected  the 
study  of  French.  It  is  true,  she  took 
her  "Corinne"  with  her,  and,  as  she 
wandered  on,  always  attempted  to 
translate  it.  But,  with  her,  knowledge 
has  ceased  to  be  the  supreme  power ; 
and  as  to  the  story,  what  was  the  ro- 


A  "WOMAN'S  RIGHT. 


97 


mance  in  the  book  compared  with  the 
romance  in  her  pocket,  shut  within  the 
perfumed  folds  of  that  marvellous  let 
ter,?  What  were  Oswald  and  Lucy,  or 
the  incomparable  Corinne,  while  Paul 
lived,  and  loved  her,  and  wrote  her  let 
ters,  and  was  coming  in  August !  Not 
much.  She  always  began  her  walk 
studying  ;  she  always  ended  it  reading 
for  the  hundredth  time,  very  likely, 
that  letter.  What  a  letter  it  was ! 
Written  anew  every  day,  its  burden 
never  changed.  It  was  ardent,  passion 
ate,  and  tender,  with  the  ardor,  pas 
sion,  and  tenderness  of  a  young  man's 
first,  absorbing  love.  It  had  but  one 
object — that,  to  make  her  realize  how 
infinitely  dear  to  him  she  was.  He 
described  the  life  of  the  city — the 
drawing-rooms  of  Beacon-street  and  of 
Marlboro  Hill — the  gay  beauties  who 
assembled  there — till  they  all  appeared 
in  panorama  before  her  eyes ;  but  it 
was  only  that  he  might  declare,  "  Amid 
them  all,  I  think  only  of  you.  Every 
where  I  am  alone,  because  you  arc  not 
here."  With  this  letter  in  her  pocket, 
its  words  graven  in  her  heart,  Eirene 
would  return  to  the  little  chamber,  and 
she  no  longer  saw  that  it  was  low,  or 
dusty,  or  hot.  She  no  longer  spent  her 
evenings  here,  as  she  had  done  last 
summer.  She  knew  nothing  of  the 
path  by  the  river-side  then.  It  was 
Paul  who  had  told  her  of  it  as  a  pleas 
ant  retreat — one  of  his  own  from  boy 
hood.  Of  course,  he  did  not  think  it 
necessary  to  add,  that  he  had  carried 
on  more  flirtations  in  this  path,  told 
more  pretty  falsehoods  in  it,  than  any 
other  young  man  in  Busyville.  It  was 
very  soothing  to  Eirene  to  take  refuge 
under  the  softly-murmuring  trees  from 
Tilda  Stade's  reproving  face  ;  for, 
though  she  left  Eirene  alone  in  speech, 
with  many  a  glance  and  groan  she  said, 
''  You  are  lost — hopelessly,  eternally 
lost."  This  was  not  a  very  enlivening 
assurance  to  have  flung  perpetually  in, 
one's  face.  Thus,  what  wonder  that 
Eirene,  beside  the  river,  took  refuge  in 
"  Corinne  "  and  her  letter  ?  Since  he 
had  extinguished  her  at  the  Camp- 
Meeting,  Tilda  had  never  mentioned 
7 


Paul's  name ;  but  whenever  she  saw  a 
letter — and  she  took  pains  to  see  one  as 
often  as  possible,  by  rushing  to  the 
Post-Office  and  bringing  it  to  Eirene 
with  her  own  hand — she  groaned.  By 
this  groan  she  informed  Eirene  that  she 
understood  the  exact  state  of  affairs, 
and  had  in  no  wise  changed  her  opin 
ion.  Eirene's  portfolio  lying  within 
reach  one  day,  as  Tilda  sat  alone,  she 
opened  it  and  took  from  it  a  letter  of 
Paul's,  and  read  it  from  beginning  to 
end.  Her  conscience  pricking  her  dur 
ing  the  process,  she  exclaimed,  "  I  do  it 
for  her  good.  Unless  I  know  her  exact 
case,  how  can  I  befriend  her  in  the 
end  ?  I  shall  never  tell  any  body  what 
I  know.  It's  the  same  as  if  it  were 
buried.  Marry  her  ?  Hum !  I  think  I 
see  him  ! "  Then  Tilda  kneeled  down, 
and  fervently  prayed  the  Lord  to  for 
give  her  if  she  had  erred  in  reading  the 
letter,  for  He  knew  that  she  did  it  for 
Eirene's  good  ! 

In  absence  there  is  no  barometer  of 
love  like  a  letter;  it  inevitably  bears 
within  it  something  of  the  unconscious 
atmosphere  of  its  writer — one  sure  to 
be  felt  by  the  heart  to  whom  it  is  ad 
dressed,  although  it  may  not  be  under 
stood. 

July  came,  and  Eirene  began  to  won 
der  why  she  felt  as  if  she  must  burst 
into  tears  when  she  had  finished  read 
ing  one  of  Paul's  letters.  They  were 
still  full  of  protestations  of  love,  but 
these  were  no  longer  coupled  with 
bright  prospects  of  the  future.  In 
stead,  there  were  constant  allusions  to 
their  unfortunate  destiny. 

Two  months  before,  how  bright  and 
brave  these  letters  had  been  !  In  them 
Paul  had  declared  himself  strong  enough 
to  conquer  any  fate  for  her  dear  sake ; 
but  now,  Eirene  was  filled  with  a  vague 
apprehension,  without  knowing  where 
fore.  Then  her  loving  heart  travelled 
back  to  the  last  September,  and  tried 
to  assure  her  that  August,  the  dear  Au 
gust  so  near  at  hand,  would  set  every 
thing  right,  and  bring  back  once  more 
the  enchantment  of  life.  Yet,  in  spite 
of  youth  and  hope  and  love,  her  heart 
misgave  her  sometimes,  when  she  looked 


EIBENI : 


on  the  beautiful  house  across  the  street 
— Paul's  home — and  realized  that  she 
was  shut  out. 

"  I  wish  it  were  all  different,  dar 
ling,"  said  Paul ;  and  as  he  looked-  into 
the  beseeching  eyes  upturned  to  bis 
face,  that  moment  he  did. 

August  had  come.  Paul  had  only 
reached  Busyville  that  morning.  It 
was  evening,  and  he  and  Eirene  were 
in  Lover's  Walk.  He  had  just  told 
her  of  the  expected  visit  of  his  friends, 
who  were  to  arrive  the  next  day.  He 
went  on  to  say  : 

"  I  had  nothing  to  do  with  it.  It  is 
mother's  work.  She  came  to  Boston 
and  invited  them.  In  one  way  and  an 
other  I  am  under  obligations  to  the 
Prescotts,  especially  for  their  hospital 
ity.  I  visited  at  Marlboro  Hill  before 
I  ever  saw  you.  So,  when  mother  gave 
her  invitation,  and  they  accepted  it,  I 
could  do  nothing  but  second  it;  and 
now  I  cannot  do  less  than  make  their 
visit  agreeable  in  every  way  in  my 
power.  It  is  an  actual  debt  that  I  owe 
them,  Eirene." 

"  Yes,"  said  Eirene,  "  I  see  how  it  is. 
I  would  not  have  you  do  otherwise,  if 
I  could.  I  am  wrong,  I  know,  to  feel 
at  all  disappointed.  I  mean — I  think — 
I  should  be  glad  to  have  you  go  about 
with  them  a  great  deal,  if  we  could 
visit  a  little  together — only  a  little — as 
we  did  last  September.  Then  I  shouldn't 
get  lonesome." 

"  But  that  would  be  impossible,  if 
they  were  not  coming  at  all,  child ;  " 
and  Paul's  voice  grew  hard,  and  uncon 
sciously  chilled  her.  "  We  were  at 
Hilltop,  then.  I  was  trouting  in  Arca 
dia  when  I  told  you  those  beautiful 
stories.  God  knows,  I  wish  they  were 
all  true  to-day.  But  we  are  in  Busy- 
ville  now.  I  can't  meet  you  here  often, 
without  setting  a  hundred  scandalous 
tongues  wagging.  You  see " 

Paul  was  going  to  say,  "  You  see, 
they  always  did  say  such  things  if  they 
saw  me  with  shop-people ; "  and  he 
might  have  added,  "  with  good  cause ; " 
but  he  said,  "  You  see,  for  some  reason 
of  their  own,  the  people  here  expect 
that  I  will  marry  elsewhere.  Thus,  if 


they  see  me  waiting  upon  any  young 
lady  in  town,  they  always  declare  I  do 
it  with  some  nefarious  design.  You 
are  to  be  my  wife.  I  love  you,  yet  at 
present  I  cannot  protect  you ;  that  is 
reason  enough  why  I  should  not  bring 
one  shadow  of  reproach  upon  you,  my 
darling.  If  I  walked  with  you  here, 
while  my  mother  refused  to  invite  you 
to  her  house,  you  see  how  people  would 
talk " 

Eirene  grew  pale.  She  was  trying  to 
accept  it,  to  understand  it — this  hard 
fact,  striking  into  the  face  of  her  dream. 
All  she  had  actually  known  of  Paul's 
society  had  been  by  the  peaceful  river 
and  in  the  sheltered  room  at  home ; 
she  had  not  realized  before  that  she 
could  not  enjoy  something  of  the  same 
intercourse  here.  The  demon  of  "  peo 
ple's  talk  "  had  never  risen  before  her 
mind ;  but,  now  that  Paul  spoke  of  it, 
she  remembered  the  gossip  which  she 
herself  often  heard  in  the  shop,  and 
knew  that  what  he  said  was  true.  It 
was  not  to  be ;  perhaps  she  could  not 
see  him  at  all ;  but  that  he  was  com 
pelled  to  tell  her  that  she  was  not  rec 
ognized  by  his  own  mother,  was  hard. 
Then  she  remembered  how  he  had 
thought  that  in  one  year  it  would  all  be 
different ;  that  now  was  the  time  when 
he  had  promised  to  acknowledge  her 
before  the  world  as  his  affianced  wife. 
Perhaps  he  read  the  thought  on  her 
white  and  silent  face  ;  for  he  said, 

"  I  believed  that  by  this  time  I  could 
have  acknowledged  our  relation  to 
every  body ;  but  circumstances  have 
been  too  strong  for  me.  I  am  not  yet 
independent.  Until  I  am,  we  must 
wait,  my  darling.  It  won't  be  long. 
When  I  am  fairly  established,  then  it 
will  all  come  true,  the  lovely  life  that  I 
planned  last  summer." 

All  the  light  came  back  into  her  eyes 
as  he  mentioned  the  life  of  the  last 
summer. 

"  I  could  wait  forever,"  she  said,  "  for 
ease  and  fortune.  The  luxury  you  told 
about,  Paul,  don't  seem  to  belong  to 
me.  I  was  happy  while  you  were  away. 
I  did  not  expect  to  see  you  ;  but  to  see 
you  every  day,  and  yet  to  be  scarcely 


A  WC/MAN'S  RIGHT. 


99 


able  to  speak  with  you — to  see  you  all 
the  time  with  others,  while  I  long  for 
your  society  so  much,  will  make  me  so 
lonely,  Paul,  I'm  afraid  I  sha'n't  know 
how  to  bear  it  at  first ;  but  I  will  try. 
Maybe  it  will  not  be  so  hard  by-and-by. 
Only  now  I  am  so  disappointed.  I 
thought  we  were  going  to  be  so  happy. 
It's  so  different  from  what  I  expected." 

"•  Yet  it  is  not  so  different  from  any 
thing  that  you  might  have  expected,  if 
you  had  taken  all  the  circumstances  into 
consideration,"  said  Paul,  in  his  most 
practical  voice,  which  sounded  all  the 
harder  because  he  himself  felt  annoyed 
by  these  very  circumstances,  and  was 
really  distressed  by  the  pain  visible  on 
the  lovely  face  before  him.  Of  course, 
in  his  irritation  he  forgot  altogether 
that  in  every  letter  that  he  had  written 
her  he  had  given  her  reason  to  expect 
every  thing  to  be  different  in  this  visit 
from  the  present  reality.  She  had  never 
before  heard  this  tone  in  his  voice, 
when  he  had  spoken  to  her.  How  full 
of  supplication  and  tenderness  it  had 
always  been  ! 

It  was  almost  as  if  the  beloved  hand 
had  struck  her  a  blow.  The  swift  tears 
rose  to  her  eyes ;  with  silent  force  of 
will  she  held  them  back,  and  a  quiver 
in  her  voice  alone  betrayed  her  emotion, 
as  she  spoke  : 

"  I  have  expected  too  much — more 
than  it  is  in  your  power  to  grant  me. 
It  is  because  I  love  you." 

'•  You  haven't  expected  more  than  I 
want  to  give  you,  nor  one  tenth  of 
what  you  deserve,"  said  Paul,  passion 
ately  and  penitently,  feeling  again  the 
old  impulse  to  snatch  her  in  his  arms 
and  carry  her  off,  away  from  all  the 
world  ;  for  it  seemed  to  him  that  only 
away  from  the  world  could  he  be  abso 
lutely  true  to  her  and  worthy  of  her. 
"If  it  wasn't  for  my  cursed  life,  my 

cursed "  position,  he  was  going  to 

say  ;  but  in  an  instant  he  felt  ashamed 
to  mention  it.  "  If  I  was  not  tangled 
on  every  side,  darling,  it  would  be  so 
different.  But  I'll  tell  you  every  thing. 
I  know  you  would  forgive  me,  no  mat 
ter  what  I  did.  I  am  in  debt.  Before 
I  knew  you,  I  spent  more  than  my  al 


lowance.  I  associated  with  rich  young 
men,  who  gave  suppers,  made  bets,  and 
wasted  their  money ;  I  did  the  same. 
Now,  darling,  I'm  reaping  the  conse 
quences.  I  can't  marry  till  I  get  out 
of  debt.  The  very  day  that  I  do,  I  can 
begin  life  anew,  and  with  you.  You 
will  wait  for  me,  won't  you,  precious  ? 
No  matter  what  you  see,  no  matter  how 
hard  things  may  seem,  you  will  believe 
in  me  and  love  me,  won't  you  ?  " 

"  I  will."  And  never  had  the  woman- 
gaze  been  so  tender  and  trusting  and 
entire,  as  it  was  while  the  girl  uttered 
these  words  and  looked  into  his  face. 

The  influence  of  her  spirit  on  his  was 
to  call  forth  every  generous  impulse 
latent  in  it.  Paul  Mallane  never  owned 
his  shortcomings  to  any  body  else ;  but 
it  really  was  a  delight  to  him  to  con 
fess  his  sins  to  her.  It  made  him  think 
better  of  himself  while  he  was  doing 
it ;  and,  while  he  looked  into  her  eyes, 
he  felt  capable  of  the  noblest  actions, 
and  actually  meant  and  believed  that 
he  would  do  every  thing  that  he  prom 
ised  her.  "  I  don't  deserve  such  devo 
tion,  you  lovely  one  !  "  he  exclaimed, 
as  all  the  mean  thoughts  and  regrets  of 
the  last  month  rushed  into  his  mind. 
"  I  wonder  that  you  do,  that  you  can, 
love  me,  when  I  think  of  myself  as  I 
really  am.  But  I  love  you.  No  matter 
what  happens,  believe  this,  that  I  love 
you  as  I  never  loved  before,  as  I  shall 
never  love  again  ;  that  you  are  the  only 
woman  I  ever  saw  whom  I  wished  to 
be  my  wife.  Promise  me  you  will  be 
lieve  this."  And,  as  he  uttered  these 
words,  Paul  snatched  her  into  his  arms, 
and  kissed  her  forehead,  her  eyes,  her 
mouth,  with  something  like  the  pre 
science  of  despair  running  through 
each,  that,  as  it  was  the  first  time,  so  it 
would  be  the  last ;  and  as  the  thought 
struck  his  heart,  it  seemed  to  him  that 
he  could  never  unclose  his  arms  and  let 
her  go. 

They  had  come  to  the  end  of  the 
walk,  where  the  river  bent  and  ran  on 
both  sides  of  the  great  willows,  which 
hung  down  to  the  water.  It  ran  swift 
and  dark  and  wide  here  towards  the 
dam,  a  little  further  on.  Its  rush,  and 


100 


EIKESS : 


the  cry  of  the  whippoorwill  high  over 
head,  gave  a  weird  quality  to  the  mo 
ment,  the  dim  moment  of  a  midsummer 
twilight.  Paul  held  the  face  that  he 
loved  up  in  the  soft  light.  One  linger 
ing  gaze,  one  kiss  more,  long  and  silent, 
then,  without  a  word,  he  took  her  hand 
in  his,  and  they  walked  back.  When 
they  came  out  into  the  village  the  stars 
were  shining  above  the  great  elms,  and 
hundreds  of  couples  were  sauntering  to 
and  fro  under  their  shadows.  The  tow 
ering  form  of  Paul  Mallane  could  not 
be  mistaken.  Many  recognized  him, 
and  a  few  the  girl  in  white  by  his  side. 

It  was  told  in  more  than  one  shop, 
the  next  day,  that  "  Paul  Mallane  had 
been  out  walking  with  that  Vale  girl 
again,  and  it  was  plain  enough  to  see 
that  it  was  for  no  good." 

The  next  evening,  just  as  the  last  sun- 
rays  were  brightening  the  beautiful  gar 
den  across  the  street,  Eirene  sat  by  her 
window,  alone.  It  seemed  to  her  that 
she  was  dreaming,  and  she  tried  to 
think  back  and  make  life  seem  to  her 
as  it  did  before  Paul  kissed  her.  She 
still  felt  those  kisses  upon  her  eyelids, 
her  lips,  her  brow.  It  seemed  to  her  as 
if  they  still  rested  there,  the  seal  of  his 
love. 

"  This  is  love,"  she  said.  "  How 
wonderful !  I  read  of  it,  but  I  knew 
nothing  of  it.  How  could  any  one 
ever  write  or  tell  what  love  is  ?  I  only 
know,  when  I  think  what  it  would  be 
to  me  now  to  live  without  it.  How 
did  I  live,  and  not  unhappily,  when 
nobody  cared  for  me — when  nobody 
w.mld  have  missed  me  or  have  mourned 
for  me  if  I  had  died — nobody,  1  mean, 
but  those  at  home.  I  could  not  be  so 
peaceful  now,  if  no  one  cared  for  me — 
if  nobody  thought  of  me  and  missed 
me,  as  I  miss  Paul.  Oh,  if  I  could  only 
see  him  every  day — if  I  could  go  into 
the  garden  with  him  and  look  at  those 
flowers  in  the  vases — if  I  could  go  into 
the  house  and  look  at  all  the  pretty 
things  !  I  like  to  look  at  pretty  things. 
If  I  could  go  and  come,  as  Miss  Pres- 
cott  will !  And  we  cannot  walk  any 
more  by  the  river !  I  would  not,  if  I 
could  not  see  him  as  a  friend  elsewhere. 


But  if  he  cannot  come  here,  and  I  can 
not  go  into  his  home,  we  cannot  meet 
any  more.  When  you  are  so  near,  how 
can  I  live  without  you,  Paul  ?  Oh, 
you  thought  we  should  be  so  happy  in 
August !  "  And  her  heart  gave  a  sud 
den  cry,  and  she  lifted  her  hand  invol 
untarily,  as  if  to  hold  the  remembered 
kisses  upon  her  face.  "  I'm  so  lonely, 
Paul !  "  she  said,  in  a  broken  voice. 

Just  then  a  span  of  magnificent  bays 
in  white  trappings  pranced  up  to  the 
house  opposite.  The  carriage  which 
they  drew  was  so  much  more  splendid 
than  any  Eirene  had  ever  seen  before, 
that  for  an  instant  she  was  too  dazzled 
to  distinguish  Paul  sitting  on  the  back 
seat  with  a  lady,  while  in  front  was  a 
gentleman  with  Grace.  This  moment 
Momo,  in  the  further  window,  having 
just  caught  the  name  from  Eirene's  lips, 
began  to  cry,  "  Paul !  pretty  Paul !  " 
with  undiminished  vehemence.  The 
lady  in  the  carriage  looked  up,  saw  the 
parrot,  saw  Eirene.  Isabella  Prescott 
immediately  recognized  "  the  shop 
girl  ; "  and  the  shop-girl,  looking  down 
upon  that  face  turned  full  upon  her, 
knew  instinctively,  without  knowing 
wherefore,  that  she  looked  into  the  eyes 
of  an  enemy. 

"  Why,  how  glad  this  parrot  is  to  see 
you  !  And  who  is  that  pretty  girl  ?  " 
asked  Bell  of  Paul. 

"  Her  name  is  Vale,"  said  Paul,  hur 
riedly. 

Before  this,  the  footman  had  opened 
the  carriage-door,  and  Tabitha  Mallane 
had  appeared  in  the  veranda  of  the 
tea-green  mansion,  arrayed  in  Aunt 
Comfort's  best  silk. 

The  air  was  full  of  gay  words  and 
laughter.  A  light,  mocking  laugh 
came  back  to  Eirene  as  the  party  dis 
appeared  in  the  house.  Never  in  her 
life  before  had  Eirene  heard  any  thing 
so  mocking  as  this  laugh.  It  struck 
her  heart,  and  she  felt  a  new  and  utter 
ly  unknown  sensation — the  pang  of 
love,  jealousy.  It  is  not  true  that  per 
fect  love,  if  human,  casts  out  fear.  All 
human  experience  proves  otherwise. 
Her  love  was  complete,  but  the  condi 
tions  under  which  she  loved  were  cruel. 


A  WOMAN'S  RIGHT. 


Immediately  and  intuitively  she  real 
ized  the  immense  advantage  possessed 
by  the  woman  who  had  looked  up  at 
her  and  mocked  her  with  a  laugh.  She 
even  overrated  them,  so  humble  was 
she  in  her  opinion  of  herself.  To  see  a 
highly-wrought,  passionate  woman  jeal 
ous,  is  often  a  grand  picture  ;  for  there 
may  be  sublimity  in  a  mental  and  emo 
tional  storm  as  well  as  in  a  material 
one.  But  to  see  a  gentle  nature  struck 
to  the  heart  by  this  demon,  is  a  sorrow 
ful  sight ;  there  is  no  thunder  and 
lightning  and  wrath  to  sustain  the 
energy  of  such  a  one,  but  only  tears, 
and  silent,  unutterable  anguish.  Such 
a  woman  struck  by  jealousy  is  like  a 
dumb  animal  that  has  received  its 
death-wound.  Eirene  sat  silent,  as  if 
paralyzed.  In  an  instant  all  joy  seemed 
to  be  struck  out  of  her  life,  and  she  to 
be  alone  on  earth.  But  Moino,  who 
was  thoroughly  wide  awake,  and  evi 
dently  excited  by  the  unwonted  appear 
ance  of  the  new-comers  across  the 
street,  continued  to  scream,  "  Paul ! 
pretty  Paul ! "  He  brought  Eirene 
back  suddenly  "  to  a  realizing  sense," 
as  Tilda  would  have  called  it.  "  You 
sing  for  spite — you  sing  for  doom ! " 
she  would  undoubtedly  have  exclaimed 
had  she  been  a  theatrical  young  lady ; 
but  as  she  was  only  a  simple,  suffering 
girl,  whom  a  new  anguish  had  sudden 
ly  stung  into  a  nervous  irritation  before 
unknown  to  her  nature,  she  only  walked 
quickly  to  the  window  and  took  the 
cage  from  the  ledge,  with  Momo  still 
screaming  to  the  most  piercing  limit  of 
his  voice.  "  Hush  !  hush  !  "  she  ex 
claimed.  "  Momo,  you  shall  never  mor 
tify  me  again  ;  you  shall  go  and  sit  in 
the  back  yard  for ever  !  " 

Here  came  a  long,  deep  sob,  and  she 
sank  vanquished  by  the  first  blow  of 
her  new  enemy. 

"  What  on  earth  is  the  matter  ? "  said 
Tilda,  an  hour  or  two  later,  when,  as 
she  returned  from  prayer-meeting,  she 
stumbled  over  the  cage  in  the  middle 
of  the  floor,  and,  lighting  the  candle, 
found  Momo  in  deep  disgrace,  with  his 
head  muffled  in  his  feathers,  and  Eirene 
with  her  head  buried  in  the  bed. 


"  Nothing,"  said  Eirene,  lifting  a 
white  face  from  the  pillow,  "  only  I'm 
not  feeling  quite  well.  Momo  was  so 
noisy  in  the  window,  I  set  him  there.  I 
shall  keep  him  in  the  yard  hereafter." 
And  with  these  words  she  arose,  and 
quietly  walked  out  of  the  room  with 
the  cage. 

"  Oh,  no  ;  nothing's  the  matter  !  " 
muttered  Tilda,  as  she  sat  down  by  the 
open  window,  grimly  planting  her  el 
bows  on  her  knees  and  her  chin  in  her 
hands  ;  "  nothing's  the  matter ;  only 
those  cussed — (may  the  Lord  forgive 
me  !) — those  cussed  Boston  folks  have 
come.  I  saw  'em  drive  up  this  mornin' 
in  a  circus-coach,  it  looked  like  to  me ; 
and  the  snip  had  her  hat  full  of  feath 
ers,  and  the  feller  looked  as  if  he  ought 
to  be  spanked ;  and  I  thanked  goodness 
the  child  was  in  the  shop  and  couldn't 
see  'em ;  but  she  has  seen  'em  and  heard 
'em,  and  heard  the  peanner  goin',  and 
the  poor  baby  all  alone  in  the  dark  ! 
Now,  we'll  see  what  we  shall  see.  I'll 
see  if  he'll  keep  the  promise  he  made  in 
that  letter,  and  marry  her.  If  he  idon't, 

may  the  Lord If  he  does,  he'll  be 

the  death  of  her.  I  told  her  so.  WTiy 
didn't  she  get  religion  !  Then  he'd  'a' 
had  to  have  stayed  with  his  own  kind, 
for  all  of  comin'  to  break  her  heart ! " 

It  was  past  midnight  when  the  music 
and  mirth  in  the  drawing-room  across 
the  street  ceased,  and'  Isabella  Prescott 
retired  to  the  apartment  assigned  to  her 
for  the  night.  It  was  Eirene's  old 
room,  into  which  two  others  had  been 
thrown.  Bella  was  seated  by  the  same 
window  where  Eirene  sat  when  Paul 
contemplated  her  from  under  the  cherry- 
tree.  But  her  gaze  was  not  turned  out 
ward  ;  she  was  busy  scanning  the  fur 
niture  by  the  searching  gas-light,  which 
had  taken  the  place  of  Eirene's  tallow 
candle. 

"  Every  thing  smells  as  if  it  had  just 
come  out  of  a  varnish-shop,"  she  said, 
as  she  sniffed  her  nose  contemptuously. 
"  New,  stark,  staring  new,  every  article 
in  the  room.  I  see  they  have  taken 
some  lessons  from  Marlboro — bought 
every  thing  as  dark  and  rich  as  possi 
ble  ;  but  veneering,  varnish,  and  new 


102 


EIRKNE : 


oils,  are  not  to  be  repressed.  Ugh  1  I 
shall  smother.  If  I  don't,  how  I  shall 
look  in  the  morning,  after  breathing 
such  air  all  night !  And  it  is  quite  ne 
cessary  that  I  should  look  my  best — 
languid,  slightly  pale,  but  still  my 
best,"  she  said,  proceeding  to  the  glass 
and  commencing  to  practise  her  usual 
faces.  "  The  shop-girl  has  more  of  a 
face  than  I  was  quite  prepared  to  see," 
she  soliloquized,  as  she  went  on  putting 
her  hair  into  crimps.  "  Not  a  common 
face,  certainly — a  face  that  I  would 
make  havoc  with  myself,  if  I  were  a 
young  man.  I  like  to  do  it  justice — 
absolute  justice ;  then  I  can  take  so 
much  the  more  credit  to  myself  as  an 
artist,  when  I  triumph  over  it  and 
crush  it ;  for  I  intend  to  crush  it.  I'll 
pay  you,  Miss  Shop,  for  interfering 
with  a  Prescott !  " 

Miss  Prescott  was  perfectly  well  aware 
what  she  was  doing  when  she  brought 
her  carriage  and  horses,  coachman  and 
footman,  to  Busyville.  Dick  remon 
strated — said  it  was  parvenuish,  and 
unworthy  of  their  high  estate ;  but 
Miss  Isabella  declared  that  "  she  didn't 
care  ;  "  and  she  didn't.  What  she  did 
care  for,  was  to  impress  upon  the  mind 
of  a  vulgar  town  her  own  magnificence, 
for  the  establishment  was  her  own. 
"  It  is  useless  to  object,  Dick,"  she 
said ;  "  I'm  not  going  to  be  jolted 
about  in  their  old  country  arks.  I'm 
so  delicate  !  "  Thus  the  Prescott  bays 
and  barouche  issued  from  the  village 
livery-stable  every  evening,  and  passed 
through  the  village-street,  the  wonder 
and  the  envy  of  the  natives.  A  Euro 
pean  war,  or  the  "  abolition  of  slavery," 
could  not  have  plunged  the  villagers 
in,to  such  a  state  of  personal  excite 
ment. 

"  It  is  plain  enough  to  see  why  such 
people  visit  the  Mallanes.  They  have 
a  son  !  "  said  the  Brahmins,  with  up 
lifted  noses. 

"  What  does  Brother  and  Sister  Mai- 
lane  expect  is  goin'  to  become  of  their 
souls,  encouragin'  such  pomps  and  van 
ities,  and  a-settin'  such  an  example !  " 
said  the  Bustlers.  But  in  both  classes 
the  seed  of  Isabella  Prescott's  vanity 


reaped  an  abundant  harvest.  For  six 
months  after,  Busyville  boasted  that  it 
had  more  dashing  teams  than  any  other 
town  in  the  county. 

More  than  a  week  had  passed,  and 
Paul  and  Eirene  had  not  spoken  since 
the  evening  when  they  met  in  Lover's 
Walk.  Yet  she  saw  him  every  day — 
sometimes  in  the  grand  barouche,  seat 
ed  beside  Miss  Prescott ;  sometimes  on 
Fleetfoot,  with  Miss  Prescott,  in  an  ele 
gant  habit,  with  a  jaunty  hat  full  of 
shining  plumes,  on  another  curvetting 
horse  by  his  side,  going  or  returning 
from  their  daily  ride ;  sometimes  in 
the  veranda,  reading  to  Miss  Prescott ; 
sometimes  in  the  rustic  seat  under  the 
old  cherry-tree,  chatting  with  Miss 
Prescott  by  the  hour  ;  but  whenever  or 
wherever  she  saw  him,  always  with 
Miss  Prescott.  Outside  of  worki no- 
hours  there  was  little  refuge  from  this 
sight  of  him ;  for  there  was  neither 
light  nor  air  in  Seth  Goodlove's  front 
chamber  away  from  the  window. 

"  Well,"  said  Tilda,  one  evening, 
looking  across  the  stand  to  Eirene,  sit 
ting  in  her  old  seat  with  her  eyes  fixed 
upon  a  piece  of  sewing,  through  which 
the  needle  seemed  to  pass  faltering  and 
slowly,  "  I  will  declare  that  you  are 
sick,  and  shall  go  home.  John  Mai- 
lane  gave  you  a  vacation  last  year ; 
why  don't  he  do  so  this  ?  You  need 
it  now  enough  sight  more,  goodness 
knows.  I  shall  ask  him  myself  to-mor 
row,  and  tell  him,  if  you  don't  go, 
you'll  be  right  sick ;  and  you  will. 
No,  I  won't  tell  him  any  such  thing : 
I'll  tell  him  you  need  rest,  and  must 
have  it.  I  will  say  to  you,  Eirene  Vale, 
that  I  never  saw  such  a  change  in  any 
person  in  one  week  in  my  life.  I  can't 
bear  it,  and  aia't  a-goin'  to  try.  I  hate 
him  so,  I  do.  Oh,  I'm  losing  my  re 
ligion.  I've  lost  my  enjoyment.  I 
ha'n't  had  the  evidence  tor  a  week. 
Thafs  the  harm  it's  doin'  me,  Eirene 
Vale ;  and  it's  killing  you.  I  told  you 
so.  I  told  you  so.  Heed  me  you 
wouldn't." 

The  face  had,  indeed,  changed,  which 
looked  back  to  Tilda  without  a  word. 
The  roundness,  the  peachy  bloom  of 


A  WOMAN'S  KIGHT. 


103 


the  cheek,  the  unquestioning  trust  of 
the  eyes,  were  gone.  Experience  and 
pain  had  done  the  work  of  years.  It 
was  suffering  which  had  struck  out  the 
first  fresh  tints  of  youth.  It  was  like 
an  untimely  frost  on  a  Spring  flower. 
There  was  a  tension  about  the  mouth, 
a  depth  in  the  eyes,  never  seen  there 
before.  The  dreaming  girl  had  gone 
forever ;  in  her  place  was  the  woman. 

"  I  am  sorry,  Tilda,  you  should  feel 
troubled  about  me,"  she  said,  in  a 
strangely  quiet  tone.  "  I  am  not  as 
well  as  usual.  I  will  ask  Mr.  Mallane 
myself,  to-morrow,  to  let  me  go  home 
for  a  week.  I  will  go  and  walk  a  little 
way  now.  I  think  the  air  will  do  me 
good." 

Eirene  had  been  gone  but  a  few  mo 
ments,  when  Paul  Mallane  knocked  at 
the  open  door  below. 

In  the  back  room  Mrs.  Goodlove  was 
washing  the  tea-dishes,  amid  a  flock  of 
quarreling  children.  The  whole  air 
of  the  place  was  hot  as  an  oven.  The 
heat  in  the  front  room,  with  the  smell 
of  the  last  winter's  smoke  and  of  yes 
terday's  cabbage,  was  stifling  to  Paul ; 
while  Mrs.  Goodlove,  with  her  sleeves 
above  her  elbows  and  a  greasy  apron 
on,  began  to  rattle  and  roll  up  a  torn 
paper-curtain  while  she  asked  him  to 
be  seated,  adding,  that  she 'would  go 
and  see  if  Eirene  was  in.  By  this  time 
Tilda,  who  had  seen  Paul  come  across 
the  street,  leaned  over  the  balusters, 
where,  through  the  open  door,  she 
looked  him  directly  in  the  face,  and 
exclaimed,  in  no  dulcet  tone, 

"  You  needn't  come  here,  Paul  Mal 
lane.  Eirene  Vale  is  not  in ;  and  if  she 
was,  she  would  not  see  you." 

"  Thank  you,"  said  Paul,  and  walked 
deliberately  out.  As  he  left  the  house, 
he  observed  Bella  in  an  airy  robe  of 
azure  sitting  in  the  garden  veranda 
and  joined  her.  Not  long  after,  Eirene, 
coming  down  the  street,  saw  the  two 
sitting  there,  and  they  saw  her.  As  she 
looked  up,  Paul  bowed  ;  but  there  was 
a  remoteness  that  could  not  be  meas 
ured  in  the  recognition.  Had  he  been 
on  the  other  side  of  the  earth,  he  could 
not  have  seemed  further  away.  Still, 


upon  her  face  she  felt  his  kisses,  and 
she  said, 

"  One  week  ago  he  called  me  his 
promised  wife.  Can  this  be  he  ?  " 

Paul,  looking  after  her,  noted  the 
slight  form,  the  weary  step,  the  plain 
dress,  the  white  sun-bonnet  hiding  her 
face,  and  said, 

"  She  is  the  woman  I  have  promised 
to  marry,  and  she  lives  in  that  horrid 
place ! " 

He  looked  at  the  woman  by  his  side, 
her  fair  hair  gleaming  through  a  net  of 
silver  thread ;  at  the  transparent  robe 
of  blue,  in  whose  elegant  fabric  and 
fashion  Paris  seemed  to  have  surpassed 
itself;  at  the  delicate  hands  glittering 
with  gems ;  at  the  woman  whom  pov 
erty  and  pain  and  care  had  never 
touched,  sitting  perfectly  picturesque 
in  her  summer  setting  of  flowers  and 
vines,  and  he  felt  the  contrast.  It  is 
doubtful  if  the  fairest  woman  knows 
how  much  she  may  owe  to  her  graceful 
and  gracious  surroundings.  It  is  diffi 
cult  for  the  loveliest  of  women  to  real 
ize  how  much  she  may  lose  because  her 
beauty  struggles  into  flower  in  a  harsh 
atmosphere  and  amid  vulgar  associa 
tions.  Eirene,  as  she  stepped  into  Seth 
Goodlove's  odoriferous  hall,  felt  the 
pang  in  her  heart,  without  knowing 
one  half  of  her  disadvantages.  The 
beauty  of  her  soul  and  of  her  face  had 
been  so  potent  as  to  command  love  in 
defiance  of  conditions  the  most  repel 
ling  to  a  man  like  Paul  Mallane.  He 
loved  Eirene,  and  did  not  love  the 
woman  by  his  side ;  yet  her  art,  with 
the  glamor  of  her  accompaniments, 
were  powerful  enough  to  hold  him  from 
the  woman  that  he  loved.  Bella  saw 
Eirene,  and  Paul's  following  and  re 
turning  glance,  and  understood  it.  She 
was  perfectly  aware  of  her  own  im 
mense  advantage,  and  made  the  most 
of  it.  How  was  Paul  to  know  that  the 
perfect  picture  which  she  made,  with 
the  very  effect  that  it  had  upon  him 
self,  was  the  result  of  hours  and  days 
of  study  ?  for  the  most  diplomatic  of 
men  is  an  unsuspecting  infant  before 
the  small  but  occult  arts  of  an  artful 
woman.  Paul  looked  at  Bella,  and  saw 


104 


EIBENE : 


only  the  pale,  transparent  skin,  the  shy, 
deprecating,  appealing  air  which  had 
enchanted  him  for  the  last  month.  She 
was  no  longer  arch  and  tantalizing ; 
never  mentioned  the  shop-girl,  nor 
teased  him  about  "  a  little  loveress." 
No ;  she  was  so  utterly  drooping  and 
submissive,  so  pleadingly  tearful.  She 
made  him  feel  all  the  time  that  he  had 
done  her  an  injury  in  not  asking  her  to 
marry  him  ;  and  he  was  still  busy  mak 
ing  her  amends. 

"  It  won't  be  long  before  she  will  be 
gone,"  he  said  to  himself;  "  then  I  can 
go  back  and  ask  my  little  girl's  par 
don.  I'll  tell  her  just  how  it  has  been  ; 
and  she  will  forgive  me,  when  she  sees 
how  much  I'm  sacrificing  to  marry  her." 
Paul  was  not  in  an  enviable  state  of 
mind.  No  man  ever  is  who  is  doing 
his  best  to  divide  himself  between  two 
women.  Through  all  these  days  of 
utter  neglect  he  had  not  been  without 
a  desire  to  see  Eirene.  While  seeming 
utterly  oblivious  of  her,  more  than 
once  he  had  looked  through  the  closed 
blinds  of  his  own  room  to  the  utterly 
uninviting  house  across  the  street,  and 
helplessly  wished  that  there  were  some 
place  where  he  could  visit  with  Eirene, 
as  he  did  during  the  last  summer. 

"  What's  the  use  of  going  over 
there  ? "  he  asked.  "  There's  that  drag 
on  forever  on  the  watch.  And  if  she 
were  not,  it's  enough  to  put  the  senti 
ment  out  of  any  man,  to  try  and  talk 
love  amid  such  a  clatter  of  pots  and 
young  ones,  with  more  than  the  seven 
smells  of  Cologne  pushing  through  the 
door  to  knock  him  over.  I  might  meet 
her  in  Lover's  Walk  every  evening,  and 
keep  her  poor  little  heart  assured,  at 
the  expense  of  all  the  slander  that 
Busyville  could  concoct,"  he  said.  "  But 
I  won't.  I  won't  be  a  scamp — not  to 
her.  If  I  don't  keep  her  sweet  heart 
from  aching,  I'll  keep  her  pure  name 
from  blame." 

I  am  aware  that  I  am  throwing  away 
a  fine  opportunity  of  showing  Paul 
Mallane  to  be  a  villain.  According  to 
the  way  of  novels,  he  should  flirt  with 
Isabella  Prescott,  and  promise  to  marry 
her  by  day ;  write  to  Eirene  secretly, 


meet  her  clandestinely,  pursue  her,  ruin 
her,  and  forsake  her.  The  woild  has 
had  too  many  of  such  pictures.  If 
Paul  Mallane  were  such  a  villain,  I 
should  not  be  writing  about  him.  It 
would  be  sad  enough  for  the  race  that 
he  lived,  without  perpetuating  his  pic 
ture.  Paul  Mallane  was  a  man  with 
the  possibility  in  him  of  a  high  nobil 
ity,  which  his  mother,  the  prevailing 
power  in  his  life,  had  never  fed  or  fos 
tered.  He  is  a  thoroughly  defective 
character — one  who  has  missed  good 
ness,  as  in  higher  or  lower  degree  we 
all  miss  it.  The  sorrow  that  he  wrought 
came  from  the  defects  and  discrepancies 
of  his  own  nature,  not  from  any  delib 
erate  purpose  to  do  a  great  wrong. 
The  consummate  villain,  the  piercing- 
eyed  gentleman  of  unutterably  diabol 
ical  attributes,  spends  his  existence 
chiefly  in  the  novel.  I  never  saw  him, 
therefore  I  shall  not  put  him  in  mine. 

There  was  no  end  to  Tabitha  Mai- 
lane's  projects  for  the  enjoyment  of  the 
young  people.  Every  day  she  planned 
some  new  picnic,  fishing-party,  or  ex 
cursion,  all  of  which  Isabella  Prescott 
pronounced  to  be  "  lovely,"  and  most 
reviving  to  her  spirits  and  delicate 
health.  This  was  delightful  to  Mrs. 
Tabitha,  who  declared  that  'the  dear 
child  must  stay  till  her  health  should 
be  perfectly  restored.  At  the  end  of 
the  week  Dick  took  himself  off;  but 
Miss  Prescott  seemed  no  nearer  depart 
ing  than  on  the  day  of  her  coming. 
This  evening,  Paul's  desire  to  see 
Eirene,  quickened  by  many  pricks  of 
conscience,  overcame  his  dislike  and 
dread  of  the  Goodlove  house  sufficient 
ly  to  impel  him  to  go  across  the  street 
to  see  her.  The  conviction  came  sud 
denly  to  him,  the  longer  he  put  off  an 
explanation,  the  harder  it  would  be  to 
make  it ;  and  that  moment  he  wished 
it  were  over,  and  that  Bella  Prescott 
were  out  of  the  way.  But  the  atmo 
sphere  of  the  house,  and  Tilda  Stade's 
reception,  made  him  feel  as  if  any  in 
tercourse  with  Eirene  at  present  was 
impossible.  He  did  not  believe  a  word 
of  Tilda's  speech,  yet  something  in  him 
made  him  glad  that  she  said  what  she 


A  WOMAN'S  RIGHT. 


105 


did  ;  it  seemed  to  afford  him  an  excuse 
for  his  actions. 

Tilda,  having  given  vent  to  her  tem 
per,  was  quite  willing  to  believe  that 
she  did  it  "  from  a  sense  of  duty ; " 
but  the  same  "  sense "  did  not  incline 
her  to  inform  Eirene  that  Paul  had 
called  at  the  house  and  inquired  for 
her.  Presently  she  went  away,  and  left 
Eirene  alone  with  her  thoughts,  and 
the  couple  on  the  opposite  veranda, 
now  growing  shadowy  in  the  twilight. 
Eirene  gave  one  glance  at  them,  and 
then  took  refuge  from  the  sight  in  the 
dimness  of  the  room. 

"  How  near  you  seemed  to  me  in 
Cambridge,  Paul !  "  she  said  ;  "  but 
within  sound  of  your  voice,  with  only 
the  street  between  us,  it  seems  as  if  the 
universe  divided  you  and  me — as  if  I 
should  never  speak  with  you  again." 

Soon  the  piano  sent  forth  the  notes 
of  the  sweetest  air  in  "  Martha,"  and 
the  melody  drew  her  involuntarily  to 
the  window.  All  that  she  knew  of 
music  was  in  emotion  ;  this  in  her  was 
a  deep  interpreter ;  it  thrilled  her, 
moved  her,  filled  her  with  bliss  or  pain. 
No  music  had  ever  seemed  so  sweet, 
and  yet  so  sorrowful,  as  this,  coming  in 
to  her  as  she  sat  alone.  .  It  came  from 
him,  from  her ;  they  were  enjoying  it  to 
gether,  and  she  was  shut  out.  Before  she 
knew,  she  felt  herself  moving  towards 
it.  She  looked ;  the  night  was  dark  ; 
no  one  could  see  her — no  one,  not  even 
if  she  slipped  into  the  garden  and  lis 
tened.  There,  although  no  one  wel 
comed  her,  she  would  not  be  so  entire 
ly  shut  away.  She  stole  softly  down 
across  the  street,  and  looked  around. 
Nobody  was  near.  She  slipped  through 
the  side-gate,  on  to  the  turf,  crossed  it 
to  the  old  cherry-tree,  and  then  looked 


up.  The  long  windows  of  the  draw 
ing-room  were  wide  open.  There  was 
no  one  in  it  but  Paul  and  Miss  Pres- 
cott,  who  was  sitting  before  the  piano 
playing.  She  was  evidently  perfectly 
familiar  with  the  opera,  for  Paul  was 
not  turning  over  the  leaves  of  her  mu 
sic.  Instead,  he  was  leaning  on  the 
piano  near,  gazing  intently  at  her.  She 
played  on  and  on,  air  after  air,  and  all 
were  of  an  infinite  tenderness,  implor 
ing,  pathetically  sweet.  There  were 
long  pauses  between  the  music,  when 
Paul  leaned  nearer  to  the  player  in  the 
dim  light,  and  his  low  tones,  with  the 
soft,  tremulous  cadences  of  her  speech, 
wandered  out  to  the  motionless  watch 
er  in  the  garden.  It  is  a  pretty  parlor- 
picture,  isn't  it  ? — the  handsome  young 
gentleman  and  lady  in  the  luxurious 
room,  sitting  in  a  tender  attitude,  cer 
tainly,  discoursing  of  music,  perhaps  ! 
It  is  not  at  all  a  heart-rending  scene  to 
describe.  Strange  it  should  have  trans 
fixed  into  a  marble  whiteness  the  girl 
in  the  garden.  She  was  a  foolish  little 
girl,  you  see,  and  had  much  better  have 
been  up  in  the  Goodlove  bed,  sound 
asleep.  It  is  not  much  to  tell  about ; 
it  is  only  a  true  soul  dying  its  first 
death  in  life,  in  its  first  desolation  of 
distrust  in  the  being  whom  it  believed 
to  be  truth  itself.  It  is  only  a  young, 
loving,  faithful  heart  aching  out  there 
in  the  darkness  ;  that  is  all. 

"  Of  course  you  may  go,"  said  John 
Mallane  to  Eirene  the  next  morning,  as 
she  stood  by  the  desk  in  his  ofiice. 
"  Bless  me,  child  !  what's  happened  to 
you  ?  Why  didn't  you  ask  me  before, 
if  you  were  sick  ?  You  need  the  moun 
tain-air.  Go,  and  stay  as  long  as  you 
please." 


106 


EIEENB: 


A   WOMAN'S    RIGHT. 


THE  CRISIS 

AGAIN  the  Summer  holds  the  hills  in 
splendor.  Her  cloud-fleets  sail  down 
the  infinite  ocean  as  peacefully  as  they 
did  one  year  ago  ;  her  forests  sway  and 
murmur  in  as  deep  content ;  her  apples 
redden  in  the  hill-side  orchard ;  her 
corn  waves  its  tassels ;  her  tobacco 
holds  up  its  cups  of  amber  in  the  sun, 
just  the  same.  Again  Eirene  sits  by  the 
window ;  but  she  does  not  watch  the 
clouds,  or  count  the  tobacco-stalks,  or 
build  palaces  in  dreams.  Her  eyes  are 
fixed  upon  the  road  where  it  emerges 
from  the  woods.  Where  is  the  horse 
with  the  arching  neck,  and  the  gal 
lant  rider,  of  one  year  ago  ?  Sustain 
ing  the  drooping  spirits  of  Miss  Pres- 
cott,  probably.  Yet  Eirene's  gaze  does 
not  wander  till  the  white  road  fades 
in  the  evening  shadow.  With  the  com 
ing  morning  she  renews  her  watch, 
saying,  "  Paul,  you  will  come  to-day." 
So  hard  is  it  for  youth  and  truth  to  let 
go  of  its  faith.  How  many  times  her 
heart  has  fluttered  like  a  bird's,  at  the 
sight  of  Fleetfoot  and  his  handsome 
rider,  coming  eagerly  along  that  road 
to  her  !  How  many  times,  with  linger 
ing,  loving  looks,  that  rider  has  turned 
reluctantly  away  1  How  could  she  be 
lieve  that  he  would  never  come  again  ? 
How  could  she  make  it  seem  that  she 
should  never  hear  more  the  thud  of 
Fleetfoot's  feet  upon  the  little  bridge  ? 
The  scene  in  the  garden,  the  last  week 
of  neglect,  seems  a  dream — here  in  the 
spot  where  she  has  been  so  happy — 
where  he  once  enveloped  and  glorified 
her  with  his  love !  Thus  each  morning 
she  said  again,  "  This  day  will  bring  a 
letter,  or  he  will  come."  But  the  days 
wore  on  ;  no  letter  came,  and  no  Paul. 
At  last  she  unlocked  the  little  box  that 
held  every  letter  he  had  ever  written 
her.  How  well  she  knew  each  one,  and 


just  at  what  time  he  had  written  this, 
or  this !  Here  was  one  in  which  he 
told  her  that,  although  surrounded  by 
the  brilliant  and  the  beautiful,  he  was 
solitary  and  miserable  because  she  was 
not  there.  Here  was  another,  in  which 
he  wrote  her  that  every  pulse  in  his  be 
ing  trembled  with  joy  because  he  was 
coming  to  be  happy  in  her  presence. 
She  read  them  over,  and  tried  to  make 
them  seem  true  once  more.  Her  mind 
was  as  troubled  as  her  heart,  for  its  es 
sence  was  truth.  If  these  words  were 
true — and  she  felt  them  to'  be  true  when 
he  uttered  them — how  could  they  moan 
nothing  now  ?  If  he  loved  her  enough 
to  seek  her  as  he  did,  how  could  he  for 
sake  her  to-day  ?  This  child,  with  her 
affections  rooted  in  constancy,  could 
realize  nothing  of  the  moods  of  a  man 
moved  by  every  fluctuating  circum 
stance.  She  had  not  grown  to  that 
knowledge  of  the  heart  where  she  could 
say,  "  He  had  many  natures.  I  think  he 
loved  me  well  with  one."  Soon  the  slen 
der  fingers  began  to  untie  the  ribbon 
which  bound  the  precious  packet,  then 
tremble  and  fail  and  at  last  falteringly 
tie  them  up  again,  and,  without  reading 
a  word,  put  them  back.  Ardent,  pas 
sionate,  and  tender,  how  would  they 
seem  to  her  now,  in  the  desolation  in 
which  she  sat !  Herein  he  had  said, 
over  and  over  again,  that  he  never  could 
be  happy  when  she  was  not  near.  Yet 
this  very  moment,  while  she  sat  think 
ing  of  him,  missing,  needing  him,  as  in 
all  her  life  she  had  never  missed  or 
needed  any  one  before,  was  he  not  en 
tirely  occupied  and  absorbed  by  anoth 
er  ?  Already  she  felt  through  her  being 
the  keenest  suffering  which  can  come  to 
a  perfectly  truthful  nature — distrust  of 
the  one  loved  best.  Believe  me,  there 
is  no  pang  like  this.  More  than  happi 
ness  was  taken  from  her,  more  than  love 


A  WOMAN'S  RIGHT. 


107 


— faith  in  the  man  who  had  represented 
to  her  all  that  was  highest  and  bright 
est  in  manhood. 

She  could  not  utter  one  word  in  the 
presence  of  her  family  that  might  cast 
the  faintest  reproach  upon  Paul.  They 
knew  her  trouble  was  in  some  way  con 
nected  with  him  ;  for  he  did  not  come, 
and  they  could  not  forget  the  last  sum 
mer,  nor  that  the  time  had  arrived  when 
he  had  promised  to  claim  Eirene  as  his 
wife.  But  they  saw  the  white  and 
watchful  face,  and  respected  its  sorrow 
too  much  to  ask  questions.  Each  one 
said,  silently,  "  Can  this  be  our  Eirene  ? " 
and,  by  constant,  nameless  little  acts  of 
love,  sought  to  prove  the  depth  and 
tenderness  of  their  sympathy. 

Two  weeks  had  gone  by — two  weeks 
in  which  every  day  had  been  a  long, 
loving  watch  for  one  who  did  not  come. 

"  She  must  be  gone  now,"  said  Eirene. 
"  He  too,  perhaps,  has  gone  with  her.  I 
must  go  back ;  I  have  been  idle  too 
long !  "  As  she  said  these  words,  she 
felt  an  infinite  weariness,  as  if  she  could 
never  take  up  her  work  again. 

Yet,  amid  all,  a  faint  hope  awoke  into 
life.  If  he  was  still  there,  waiting  for 
her,  he  would  explain  all.  Had  he  not 
begged  her,  whatever  happened,  to  be 
lieve  in  him,  to  love  him,  and  to  wait 
for  him  ?  She  would. 

Never  before  had  Muggins  looked  so 
forlorn  ;  never  before  had  she  moved 
quite  so  slowly.  Apparently  she  bad 
taken  on  the  dejection  of  her  dearest 
friend  ;  and  every  dragging  step  which 
she  took  forwards  seemed  a  protest 
against  bringing  Eirene  back  to  the 
scene  of  her  troubles.  The  impulse 
which  impelled  Muggins  to  do  it  can 
not  be  explained  ;  but  just  as  she  reach 
ed  Mr.  Mallane's  gate,  she  stood  perfect 
ly  still.  Lowell  Vale  jerked  the  reins 
and  implored  her  to  "  get  up,"  but  she 
would  not  stir.  A  light  laugh  from  the 
veranda,  in  the  mocking  tones  which 
she  knew  too  well,  gave  Eirene  a  fainty 
feeling  about  her  heart,  as  if  it  were 
going  to  stop  beating.  Before  they 
reached  the  house,  she  had  seen  Bella 
and  Grace  sitting  there,  and  it  seemed 
all  that  she  could  do  to  live  through 


going  past  them.  To  be  stopped,  to  sit 
there  helpless,  an  object  for  them  to 
gaze  upon  and  to  laugh  at,  seemed  more 
than  could  be  borne.  "  Get  up,  Mug 
gins  !  "  Muggins  only  stuck  her  feet 
firmer  and  deeper  in  the  dust,  and  stir 
red  not. 

"  I  am  paid  for  coming  to  Busyville, 
if  it  were  only  to  see  such  a  horse  ! 
Where,  where  did  it  come  from  ?  I 
know  it  lived  before  Noah  !  "  And  as 
she  uttered  these  words,  in  a  penetrat 
ing  tone  which  she  knew  reached  the 
occupants  of  the  buggy,  Isabella  Pres- 
cott  laughed  again,  more  mockingly 
than  before. 

"  Don't,"  said  Grace.  "  That's  p»ooi 
Mr.  Vale.  He's  very  poor,  and  father 
feels  sorry  for  him.  That's  Eirene.  She 
used  to  live  with  us.  I  like  her,  and  so 
does  Paul ;  but  mother  don't.  I  wouldn't 
hurt  her  feelings  for  the  world.  She  is 
so  kind  to  every  body.  Please  don't 
laugh,  Miss  Prescott !  You  wouldn't, 
if  you  knew  her." 

"  But  I  may  laugh  at  the  horse,  mayn't 
I  ?  Look  at  it !  " 

There  was  a  picture.  The  rusty  old 
buggy,  and  its  occupants  covered  with 
dust,  Lowell  Vale  jerking  the  reins,  and 
calling  upon  Muggins  to  "  get  up  ;  " 
Muggins  standing  stone  still,  save  when 
the  warning  whip  came  down  upon  her 
back,  when  she  gave  a  jump  upward  and 
a  push  backward,  as  if  she  were  going 
to  back  herself  all  the  way  to  Hill-top. 

Just  then  the  Prescott  span  and  ba 
rouche  drove  towards  the  door  for  the 
evening  drive.  The  extremes  in  the  for 
tune  of  the  girl  upon  the  veranda  and 
the  girl  in  the  buggy  could  hardly  be 
contrasted  more  strongly  than  by  the 
two  opposing  vehicles.  The  caparisoned 
bays,  the  liveried  servants,  the  emblaz 
oned  carriage  stood  beside  the  poor  old 
buggy  and  the  vicious  old  horse,  and 
the  contrast  brought  the  paltry  triumph 
to  its  owner  so  dear  to  little  souls. 

Muggins  monopolized  the  Mallane- 
gate  and  carriage-stand,  and  must  be 
got  out  of  the  way.  There  was  no  help 
for  it.  Eirene  must  descend  before 
them,  with  that  cruel  laugh  still  ring 
ing  through  her  brain.  She  did  it  with 


103 


EIRENE  : 


a  bowed  head  ;  but  as  she  reached  the 
ground,  the  tones  of  the  beloved  voice 
made  her  lift  it  involuntarily  ;  the  very 
tone  brought  support  and  courage.  Sure 
ly  he  would  silence  the  mocking  voice. 

Paul  had  come  to  the  door  just  in 
time  to  catch  one  of  Muggins'  most  ri 
diculous  antics.  He  might  have  laugh 
ed,  had  he  not  seen  Eirene.  His  first 
impulse  was  the  old  one— to  catch  her 
up  and  carry  her  far  away  from  all  her 
hideous  surroundings ;  his  second  was 
to  go  and  assist  her.  He  had  taken  the 
first  step  towards  doing  it,  when  Bella 
exclaimed : 

"  See  !  see  !  that  atrocious  beast  is 
backing  that  old  box  into  King  Ferdi 
nand's  face  !  Oh  !  oh  !  they  are  going 
to  run  !  " 

"  Don't  be  alarmed,  Miss  Prescott." 

These  were  the  words  that  Eirene 
heard  in  the  assuring  tone.  They  were 
not  for  her  !  They  were  not  for  her,  in 
her  loneliness  and  poverty — not  for  her, 
his  promised  wife ;  they  were  for  the 
gay  and  mocking  stranger. 

An  hour  later,  Eirene  sat  in  her  old 
chair,  withdrawn  from  the  window.  She 
had  just  seen  her  father  and  Muggins 
depart.  As  she  watched  them  move 
slowly  away,  her  impulse  was  to  follow, 
and  implore  her  father  to  take  her  back. 
It  seemed  to  her,  that  she  could  not  be 
left  behind — as  if  her  last  friend  was 
leaving  her;  but  with  the  consciousness 
that  there  was  nothing  for  her  but  to 
be  left,  she  became  quiet,  and  followed 
them  with  her  eyes  till  they  were  out 
of  sight.  Thus  she  sat,  with  her  still 
white  face,  and  her  hands  listlessly 
dropped  upon  her  lap.  Life  seemed  too 
dreadful  to  be  borne.  She  had  thought 
that  they  would  all  be  gone — that  her 
heart  would  no  longer  be  tortured  with 
so  many  mocking  sights.  She  had 
hoped,  fondly,  timidly  hoped,  that,  after 
all,  Paul  would  have  remained  behind, 
to  explain,  to  comfort  her,  to  tell  her 
why  she  had  been  left  alone.  But  her 
enemy  was  still  here,  and  she  looked  as 
if  she  were  going  to  stay  forever.  This 
enemy  mocked  and  ridiculed  her  yet. 
Paul's  words  of  comfort  were  not  for 
her ;  no,  they  were  for  her  tormentor. 


Oh,  wretchedness  of  love,  and  of  youth  ! 
why  couldn't  she  die  ! 

The  sound  of  wheels  made  her  look 
up  ;  and  even  where  she  sat  she  found 
that  she  could  see  Mr.  Mallane's  gate. 
For  her  own  sake  she  knew  that  she 
ought  to  retreat  further  into  the  room  ; 
but  a  miserable  fascination  held  her 
gaze.  She  did  not  see  the  barouche  and 
the  bays,  but  a  light  phaeton  with  a  sin 
gle  horse  champing  his  bit.  and  striking 
his  feet  before  it.  Presently  Paul  and 
Miss  Prescott  came  out  of  the  house  to 
gether,  Paul  with  the  young  lady's 
wraps.  How  long  it  took  him  to  adjust 
them  in  her  carriage-seat !  With  what 
infinite  pains  he  folded  and  refolded  the 
great  fleecy  shawl  over  its  slender  bars, 
that  they  might  not  come  in  contact 
with  that  susceptible  back !  Not  a  man 
among  her  slaves  but  what  felt  at  per 
fect  liberty  to  encircle  it,  to  give  it  the 
full  benefit  of  the  muscular  support  of 
his  manly  arm,  while  he  heard  the 
young  lady  murmur  in  pleading  tones, 
as  he  often  did, . 

"  Oh,  my  back !  it  tires  me  so  to  ride  ! 
I  feel  as  if  I  should  faint." 

And  as  she  had  the  art  of  looking  as 
if  she  were  going  to  do  so,  and  always 
began  toppling  from  one  side  to  the 
other,  what  could  the  most  reserved  of 
men  do  but  support  this  feeble  creature, 
if  but  out  of  human  pity  ?  Only  it  was 
remarkable  how  wonderfully  she  revived 
a  moment  after,  of  course  to  the  great 
joy  of  her  supporter.  If  he  only  could 
have  seen  her  a  few  hours  later,  spring 
ing  about  her  room  with  the  agility  of 
a  cat,  it  would  have  afforded  him  a 
study  in  feminine  backs  sufficiently 
puzzling  to  have  driven  to  despair  uny 
masculine  brain.  This  moment  Paul 
was  making  most  tender  provision  for 
this  omnipresent  vertebra.  How  care 
fully  he  assisted  her  into  her  seat,  the 
young  lady  who  was  so  delicate  !  How 
assiduously  he  arranged  the  mat  for  her 
feet !  How  slowly  he  drew  on  his  driv 
ing-gloves,  took  his  seat  by  her  side, 
took  the  reins  in  his  hand,  before  the 
gay  horse  darted  away  and  bore  them 
out  of  sight ! 

It  was  all  too  much  for  the  eyes  of 


A  WOMAN'S  RIGHT. 


103 


the  worn-out  watcher  in  Seth  Good- 
love's  chamber.  She  had  seen  it  all. 
Some  horrible  spell  drew  her  toward 
the  window  and  held  her  there.  Not  a 
gesture,  not  an  act,  not  a  look  of  his 
had  escaped  her. 

"  She  has  been  cruel  to  me,"  said  the 
aching  heart ;  "  yet  see  how  he  serves 
her  !  "  She  uttered  no  cry,  but  she 
drew  her  hand  across  her  forehead,  as 
if  to  brush  away  the  confusion  in  her 
brain.  "  Oh  !  he  said  he  loved  me — 
loved  me  alone,"  she  murmured  ;  "  that 
his  life  began  and  ended  in  me  ;  that  I 
was  soon  to  be  his  wife,  and  he  my  hus 
band.  He  said,  '  No  matter  what  you 
see,  nor  how  hard  things  may  seem,  still 
believe  in  me,  and  love  me  ! '  I  will, 
Paul ;  but  to  be  left  alone,  without  one 
word,  one  look,  one  act  of  kindness, 
and  to  see  you  give  all  to  this  cruel 
stranger,  is  hard.  What  does  it  mean, 
Paul,  if  you  love  me — if  I  am  to  be  your 
wife."  Then,  confused  in  thought,  des 
olate  in  heart,  she  crept  down  from  the 
chamber,  out  of  the  gate,  and  mechani 
cally,  without  knowing  wherefore,  turn 
ed  her  feet  towards  the  Lover's  Walk. 
She  had  not  been  there  since  the  even 
ing  that  she  walked  in  it  with  Paul. 
That  evening,  and  its  bliss,  now  sharply 
denned  in  her  memory  in  contrast  with 
the  wretchedness  of  the  present,  seemed 
to  draw  her  back  irresistibly  to  the  old 
haunt.  She  drew  her  sun-bonnet  close 
over  her  face,  that  no  one  might  see  her, 
and  hurried  on.  The  grass  was  soft 
under  her  feet ;  the  trees  bent  down  and 
whispered  to  her,  as  in  the  happy  June 
hours,  but  she  was  unconscious  of  their 
ministry.  She  did  not  pause  till  she 
came  to  the  end  of  the  Walk.  Here 
Paul  had  kissed  her,  and  uttered  his 
last  words  to  her. 

The  light  was  growing  dim,  and,  with 
an  instinctive  dread  of  being  seen  here 
alone,  she  crept  inside  of  the  curtain 
which  a  wild  vine  had  hung  from  tree 
to  tree,  and  sat  down  upon  the  moss 
inside.  A  great  willow  held  its  canopy 
over  her  head  and  fanned  her  face  with 
its  pendants.  On  the  other  side,  the 
river  ran  with  deep,  swift  flow.  As  the 
willow-boughs  swayed  and  opened,  she 


could  see  it  moving  on.  It  seemed  to 
invite  her,  to  beckon  her  to  come  to  it. 
How  easy  to  lie  down  in  its  cool  bosom, 
and  be  borne  from  all  this  trouble  for 
ever.  If  this  were  life,  she  was  sure  she 
could  not  bear  it.  How  blessed  to  end 
it  at  once !  What  rest,  what  peace, 
there  seemed  to  be  in  those  cool,  tran 
quil  waters  !  How  many  thousands  be 
fore  her  had  felt  the  same  temptation, 
and  had  yielded  to  it !  What  had  come 
to  them  then  ?  Ah,  that  was  the  ques 
tion.  The  girl  had  moved  to  the  steep 
bank.  Every  glance  of  the  water  made 
more  irresistible  the  impulse  within  to 
drop  quietly  down  into  that  liquid  bed, 
and  end  all.  Would  it  end  it  ?  Even 
now  the  quick,  strong  conscience  threw 
its  rein  over  desire  and  weakness,  and 
forced  her  to  remember  what  her  Chris 
tian  mother  had  so  often  told  her — that 
life  is  not  our  own,  but  God's  ;  that  we 
must  accept  its  penalties,  bear  its  pains, 
fulfil  its  promises,  but  that  we  have  no 
right  to  cast  it  off,  to  flee  from  it,  lest 
we  should  fail  through  it  to  reach  that 
more  exceeding  and  eternal  life  of  glory 
of  which  it  is  the  faintest  dawn.  Dim, 
far,  impossible,  seemed  the  other  life  of 
glory  to  this  young  and  overburdened 
heart;  but  this  life,  how  keen,  how 
deep  its  pang  !  She  had  read  of  brave 
souls  who  conquered  it ;  but  she  was 
not  brave  nor  strong.  It  had  conquered 
her.  Still  the  slender  feet  hung  over 
the  high  bank  ;  still  the  white  forehead, 
with  its  restraining  thought,  held  her 
back  from  the  alluring  water,  when  the 
murmur  of  human  voices  divided  the 
air  with  the  murmur  of  the  waves. 
What  tone  was  it  that  made  Eirene  in 
stinctively  draw  forward  to  the  curtain 
of  vines,  which  screened  her  from  the 
walk  ?  It  drew  nearer  and  nearer,  till 
it  came  to  the  spot  where  Paul  had  kiss 
ed  her.  It  was  Paul,  who  stood  here 
now  with  Isabella  Prescott. 

"  You  will  always  be  dearer  to  me, 
Bella,  for  this  visit,"  he  was  saying. 
"  Indeed,  I  never  should  have  known  you 
truly  if  you  had  not  come  here.  How 
could  I  have  so  misunderstood  you, 
Bell !  I  used  to  think  that  you  were 
born  to  trifle,  anxl  acted  accordingly. 


110 


You  seem  to  me  as  changed  as  if  you 
were  another  creature.  It  would  have 
saved  a  world  of  trouble  if  I  could  have 
known  your  heart  before  it  was  too  late." 

A  deep  sigh  was  the  only  response. 

"  Don't  sigh  so,  Bella  I  Do  you  sup 
pose  I  can  ever  forget  what  you  suffer 
for  me  ?  It  will  be  the  regret  of  my 
life.  Oh,  Bella,  why  didn't  you  show 
your  real  heart  to  me  more  than  a  year 
ago  ?  then  we  should  not  be  divided  to 
night." 

"  Don't  you  know,  Paul,"  murmured 
a  broken  voice,  "  that,  when  a  woman 
loves,  her  first  instinct  is  to  hide  her 
real  feelings  ?  " 

"  Yes ;  but  how  was  I  to  dream  of 
such  a  thing  in  you  ?  Really,  you  play 
ed  the  coquette  so  perfectly,  I  never 
suspected  you  of  having  real  feeling." 

"  I  was  too  proud  to  betray  it.  I 
never  should  have  betrayed  it,  if  my 
feelings  had  not  conquered  my  pride." 

':  Why  did  they  conquer  it  too  late  ? 
It  is  like  all  of  my  fate  I "  said  Paul. 

"  Why  is  it  too  late  ?  "  murmured  the 
faltering  voice. 

"  I  am  bound — irrevocably  bound  1 " 
bitterly  answered  Paul. 

"  To  whom  ?  I  have  seen  nobody 
who  has  seemed  to  have  any  special 
claim  upon  you.  Who  has  robbed  me  ? " 

"  One  your  inferior,  and  mine,  in  po 
sition.  I  have  loved  her,  but  the  con 
ditions  of  our  lives  are  so  conflicting,  I 
am  now  convinced  that  we  ought  never 
to  be  married.  I  would  release  myself 
if  I  could.  But  I  consider  a  promise  a 
binding  obligation.  If  I  could  have 
known  you  as  you  are,  Bella,  it  would 
never  have  been  made." 

"What  is  that?" 

They  both  started  at  a  sound  as  of 
something  falling  very  near.  There 
was  a  rustle  of  leaves,  then  all  was 
quiet. 

"  Perhaps  it  was  a  snake ! "  said  Bella. 

Each  looked,  but  saw  nothing,  save 
wavy  boughs  and  vines.  But  a  chill 
ran  through  Paul ;  he  shivered  as  one 
does  in  standing  near  a  human  being 
in  the  dark  without  knowing  it.  His 
last  words  had  scarcely  passed  his  lips, 
before  he  hated  himself  for  uttering 


them  ;  he  knew  them  to  be  false.  The 
face  before  him  receded,  and  another, 
the  face  that  he  loved,  again  seemed  to 
touch  his.  He  started  with  a  shock  as 
he  thought  that  he  stood  in  the  very 
spot  where  he  had  kissed  it — where  he 
had  said,  "  No  matter  what  you  see,  no 
matter  how  things  may  seem,  believe  in 
me."  That  was  scarcely  three  weeks 
ago ;  and  what  had  he  been  saying  ? 
If  she  could  have  heard  the  words 
which  he  had  just  uttered,  how  could 
she  still  believe  in  him  ?  He  felt  like  a 
man  enthralled  by  some  spell  which  he 
hated,  yet  which  he  had  no  power  to 
break.  Had  not  this  woman  by  his  side 
always  compelled  him  to  do  and  say 
things  which  made  him  hateful  to  him 
self?  Always  !  Yet  how  fair  and  gen 
tle  and  drooping  she  looked  now  !  She 
loved  him  ?  Then,  from  whence  came 
this  faint  and  far  suspicion  of  her  now  ? 
While  he  gazed,  why  did  her  face  look 
false  even  amid  its  suffering  ?  Was  he 
unjust  to  her,  even  while  she  fascinated 
him  and  held  him  ?  In  an  instant  the 
place  seemed  haunted.  He  thought 
that  he  saw  something  white — white, 
like  a  woman's  face,  in  the  darkness, 
through  the  swaying  vines. 

"  Come  !  "  he  said  ;  "  that  was  a  cu 
rious  noise.  It  really  makes  me  feel  su 
perstitious.  Does  it  you,  Bella  ?  But  I 
never  heard  of  a  ghost  in  our  Lover's 
Walk,"  he  added,  laughing.  "  I  did 
not  intend  to  stray  so  far." 

They  hurried  back,  but  Paul  saw  a 
white  face  close  to  his  all  the  way. 

It  was  past  midnight,  yet  still  he  sat 
in  the  drawing-room,  listening  to  that 
sensuous,  pleading  melody  of  Bell's, 
which  had  grown  to  have  such  power 
over  him.  It  held  him  where  he  sat ; 
yet  still  a  white,  cold  face  seemed  to 
touch  his. 

"  Where  is  she  ?  What  have  you 
done  with  her  ?  You  have  killed  her, 
Paul  Mallane  1  and  may  the  Lord  curse 
your  soul !  "  cried  Tilda  Stade,  as  she 
rushed  into  the  room,  with  her  hair  fly 
ing  and  her  eyes  filled  with  the  wildest 
excitement.  In  his  best  moments.  Paul 
hated  the  sight  of  Tilda,  but  she  seem 
ed  nothing  short  of  an  avenging  demon 


A  WOMAN'S  EIGHT. 


Ill 


to  him  now ;  and,  even  amid  the  re 
morse  and  terror  caused  by  her  words, 
his  first  impulse  was  to  seize  her  and 
thrust  her  out  of  the  window.  "  Oh, 
there's  no  use  standing  there,  looking 
white!"  she  went  on;  "and  you  had 
better  stive  your  cat-face  against  the 
wall — you  !  "  she  cried,  glaring  at  Misa 
Prescott,  who  had  wheeled  round  on. 
the  piano-stool.  "  Where  do  you  sup 
pose  she  is,  while  you're  drummin'  on 
the  peanner  ?  Likelier  than  not,  in  the 
bottom  of  the  river.  Oh  !  oh  !  " 

"  Woman,  stop  your  noise  !  "  said 
Paul,  who  expected  every  instant  to  see 
the  whole  family  appear,  to  inquire  the 
cause  of  such  cries.  "  Stop !  If  you 
are  looking  for  Miss  Vale,  I  will  go  with 
you."  And  taking  his  hat,  he  walked 
out,  Tilda  following  him.  He  asked  no 
questions,  needed  no  explanations.  He 
knew  all.  That  was  her  face  that  he 
saw  through  the  vines  !  That  was  why 
such  a  shiver  struck  him  as  he  uttered 
those  false  words  to  Bella.  She  heard 
them.  In  her  desolation,  she  had  gone 
back  alone  to  their  last  meeting-place, 
and  that  was  what  she  heard,  and  from 
his  lips.  He  stalked  on  without  a 
word,  and  soon  left  Tilda  far  behind. 
He  went  straight  to  the  end  of  the 
Walk,  pushed  back  the  heavy  vines, 
and  there,  her  sun-bonnet  by  her  side, 
her  face  almost  hidden  in  the  moss,  she 
laid,  as  if  she  were  dead. 

"  Eirene  !  "  he  said,  bending  down  to 
her.  There  was  no  answer.  His  hand 
touched  the  cold  face,  and  a  deeper 
shiver  ran  through  him  than  when  he 
thought  that  he  felt  it  hours  before. 
She  was  insensible — perhaps  she  was 
dead.  This  was  his  only  thought,  as 
he  lifted  her  in  his  arras  and  carried 
her  away,  never  pausing  even  to  still 
Tilda's  outcries,  till  he  had  laid  her  on 
her  own  bed. 

Isabella,  watching  at  the  window, 
was  the  only  one  who  saw  him  bear  his 
burden  to  the  house.  No  one  had  been 
awakened,  and  she  sat  waiting  for  his 
return,  wondering  what  explanation  he 
would  make  her  when  he  came.  She 
waited  long.  The  East  was  flushed 
with  morning  light  when  he  appeared 


from  the  house  across  the  street.  Then, 
the  look  on  his  face  was  so  different 
from  any  that  she  had  ever  seen  on  it 
before,  that  even  she  did  not  dare  to 
intrude  and  speak.  He  did  not  see  her, 
and  passed  on  to  his  own  room  without 
a  word. 

Wild  and  wonderful  were  the  stories 
which  ran  from  factory  to  factory  the 
next  morning.  "  A  man  had  seen  Paul 
Mallane  come  out  of  Lover's  Walk  with 
Eirene  Vale  in  his  arms  at  two  o'clock 
in  the  morning !  "  "  That  Vale  girl  last 
night  threw  herself  into  the  river,  and 
Paul  Mallane  dragged  her  out,  and  both 
have  been  seen  together  in  the  street  in 
a  very  dripping  condition,  with  Tilda 
Stade  crying  behind."  "  The  Vale  girl 
had  gone  crazy  with  love  for  Paul  Mal 
lane,  because,  now  the  Bosto^i  folks 
were  around,  he  did  not  notice  her. 
She  was  a  fool  to  suppose  that  he 
would.  She  had  tried  to  kill  herself, 
and  there  was  likely  more  reason  for  her 
doing  so  than  people  knew.  When  he 
was  seen  on  the  street  with  her  in  the 
winter,  every  body  knew  that  it  was  for 
no  good.  Paul  Mallane  never  noticed  a 
shop-girl  yet,  but  to  do  her  harm." 
"  Eirene  Vale  had  better  go  home,  and 
stay  there.  In  a  quiet  way  she  had  held 
her  head  very  high — too  high ;  that's 
always  the  way  with  such  people.  The 
company  she  had  slighted  was  altogeth 
er  too  good  for  her.  She  had  lost  her 
character,  and  had  better  leave.  No 
body  would  speak  to  her  if  she  stayed." 

The  subject  of  all  this  sweet  charity 
returned  to  consciousness  late  that  morn 
ing,  to  find  herself  in  the  arms  of  Tilda 
Stade,  with  a  physician  sitting  near, 
watching  her  intently.  He  informed 
her  that  she  had  been  overcome  by 
physical  weakness  and  mental  distress  ; 
that  nothing  but  an  entire  change,  of 
scene,  and  of  life,  could  insure  her  from 
serious  illness. 

"  I  understand,"  she  said,  with  per 
fect  calmness.  "  I  will  go  away  this 
afternoon,  and  never  come  back." 

She  had  a  look  upon  her  face  as  if 
she  had  just  returned  from  a  very  re 
mote  country — as  if  all  she  saw  was 
new  a  ad  strange,  or  but  dimly  rerneiu- 


112 


Ei  I:KNE  : 


bered.  She  put  her  hand  to  her  fore 
head,  as  if  she  were  trying  to  recall 
something,  or  to  collect  her  thoughts ; 
yet,  when  she  spoke,  her  words  were 
perfectly  coherent,  and  there  was  not  a 
touch  of  wildness  in  her  manner ;  in 
stead,  it  seemed  unnaturally  calm.  She 
sat  like  this,  propped  in  an  arm-chair, 
when  she  heard  Tilda  say,  in  reply  to  a 
knock  at  the  door, 

"  Paul  Mallane,  you  can't  come  in." 

"I  wish  to  see  Mr.  Mallane,"  said 
Eirene ;  "  and,  Tilda,  you  may  go,  if 
you  will  be  so  kind." 

Gentle  as  the  tone  was  in  which  these 
words  were  spoken,  there  •was  a  dignity 
and  a  positiveness  in  it  unknown  to 
Eirene  before.  Tilda  was  so  overcome 
and  astonished  by  it,  that  she  yielded 
at  once,  opened  the  door  for  Paul,  and 
walked  out  herself. 

"  Forgive  me — say  that  you  forgive 
me,  my  darling ! "  he  said,  before  he 
reached  her  chair. 

"  I  do  forgive  you,  Paul." 

"  But  do  you  care  for  me  ?  Tell  me 
that  you  care  for  me  still ;  it  is  all  I  ask." 

"  Yes,  I  care  for  you,  Paul ;  but  I  do 
not  believe  in  you." 

"  Don't  be  hard  with  me,  Eirene — 
don't !  I  did  not  mean  a  word  that  I 
said  last  night." 

"  Didn't  you  ?  "  she  asked,  with  the 
old,  innocent  wonder  in  her  eyes. 
"  Why  did  you  say  it,  then  ?  " 

"  I  can't  explain  to  you,  Eirene,  the 
conflicting  and  complex  influences 
which  may  come  into  a  man's  life — 
how  he  may  love  one  woman  devoted 
ly,  and  yet  be  led  on  to  say  a  thousand 
things  which  he  don't  half  mean,  or 
don't  mean  at  all,  to  another,  just 
through  the  force  of  influences  which 
he  cannot  control." 

"  Do  men  say  so  many  things  that 
they  don't  mean  ? "  she  said,  bewil- 
deredly.  "  Perhaps — you  didn't  mean 
what  you  said  to  me.  I  thought  you 
did.  I  don't  think  I  understand  how  a 
person  can  say  one  thing  and  mean  an 
other." 

"  No,  you  never  will  understand  it," 
said  Paul.  "  I  am  a  villain  and  a 
wretch,  but  I  swear  to  you  I  did  mean 


every  word  I  said  to  you ;  and  I  mean 
it  now,  and  I  will  prove  it,  by  devoting 
all  the  rest  of  my  life  to  you." 

"  I  don't  want  you  to  devote  your 
life  to  me,  Paul." 

"  You  don't !  "  exclaimed  Paul,  in  a 
tone  in  which  incredulity,  astonishment, 
and  distress  were  commingled. 

"  No  ;  I  don't  want  you  to  do  a  thing 
for  me  for  which  you  will  be  sorry.  It 
was  all  made  plain  to  me  last  night. 
When  you  first  told  me  that  you  loved 
me,  I  was  almost  glad  that  I  was  poor. 
I  loved  you  so  much,  I  liked  to  tliink 
that  not  only  love,  but  every  good  gift 
in  life,  was  to  come  to  me  from  you.  I 
knew  how  happy  it  would  make  me, 
had  I  been  rich  and  you  poor,  to  have 
chosen  you  out  of  all  the  world,  to 
have  given  all  that  I  had  to  you,  and 
to  have  proclaimed  to  all  the  world 
that  you  were  the  man  I  loved.  But 
Miss  Prescott  came,  and  every  thing 
changed.  I  never  knew,  till  then,  how 
hard  it  might  be  to  be  poor — to  be  left 
out — to  be  passed  by  by  the  one  loved 
best.  It  was  all  explained  last  night. 
You  said  that  we  ought  never  to  marry. 
I  knew  it  was  true — that,  if  we  did, 
even  if  you  loved  me,  that  the  time 
would  come  when  you  would  be  sorry 
— that,  when  you  saw  Miss  Prescott, 
you  would  feel  that  you  had  made  too 
great  a  sacrifice  in  marrying  me — that 
you  would  be  ashamed  of  my  father 
and  mother,  and  of  Muggins ;  that 
they  might  trouble  you  in  some  way. 
I  didn't  blame  you.  Only,  till  I  heard 
you,  I  didn't  know  how  much  there 
was  to  keep  us  apart.  Then,  I  couldn't 
understand  why  you  ever  sought  me, 
and  asked  me  to  marry  you.  But  you 
were  sorry — you  told  her  so — because  it 
kept  you  from  Tier.  It  didn't  seem  to 
me  to  be  Paul — not  the  Paul  that  I 
love.  I  do  not  know  where  Tie  is.  All 
I  know  is,  that  I  never  can  marry  him." 

"  By  heaven,  you  can  marry  me  ! " 
exclaimed  Paul ;  "  I  will  give  my  whole 
life  to  making  you  forget  what  I  have 
said  and  done." 

"  No,  I  will  never  marry  you,  Paul." 

As  she  uttered  these  words,  two  soli 
tary  tears  forced  their  way  through  the 


A  "WOMAN'S  EIGHT. 


113 


closed  eyelids  and  dropped  on  the  color 
less  cheeks ;  the  lips  quivered,  then 
grew  still.  She  slowly  turned  her  face 
away,  her  head  resting  on  the  back  of 
the  chair.  Her  whole  attitude  and  as 
pect  was  that  of  one  who  had  given  up 
every  thing  in  life.  There  was  some 
thing  irrevocable  in  the  still,  white  face, 
that  could  not  have  been  expressed  in 
the  wildest  frenzy  of  words. 

It  comes  to  every  man  once  in  his  ex 
istence,  the  vision  of  a  complete  life 
upon  the  earth.  She  comes  to  every 
man  once,  the  woman  who  could  be 
supremely  the  wife  of  his  soul — she 
who,  beyond  and  above  every  other 
human  being — might  be  to  him  what 
no  other  one  could  be,  in  companion 
ship  and  love.  Paul  Mallane  saw  this 
woman  before  him,  and  knew  that,  with 
her  going,  the  sweetest  and  most  per 
fect  possibility  of  his  life  would  pass 
away  from  him  forever.  He  saw  it 
again  for  the  last  time,  the  vision  that 
he  had  seen  so  often  before  in  better 
hours — the  home  peopled  with  bright 
children,  glorified  by  the  presence  of 
this  beloved  one,  the  mother  and  the 
wife,  the  inspiration  of  all  his  endeav 
ors,  the  crowner  of  all  his  success,  the 
soul  of  his  soul.  And  there  had  been 
times — how  many  ! — when  he  had  felt 
strong  to  dedicate  all  his  power,  all  the 
promise  of  his  life,  to  her,  and  the  life 
that  he  might  share  with  her ;  and  now 
it  was  too  late.  With  the  keenest  con 
sciousness  of  what  she  might  have 
been,  what  she  was,  to  him,  he  knew 
in  his  heart  that  he  had  forfeited  her, 
and  that  she  was  not  for  him  in  time  or 
in  eternity. 

He  went  to  her  chair,  laid  back  the 
long  bright  hair  from  ker  temples, 
stooped  down,  and  kissed  her  forehead. 
Her  closed  eyelids  looked  the  long  fare 
well-look  in  which  a  thousand  conflict 
ing  emotions  contended ; — another,  and 
another,  as  the  soft  eyes  opened  and 
looked  back  into  his,  as  from  another 
world.  Then  he  turned,  and  went  out 
of  the  house. 


It  was  September.  On  the  lawn  at 
Marlboro  were  a  number  of  persons 
whom  we  have  seen  before.  Dick  and 
Dolores  were  sitting  together,  and  near 
them  stood  Don  Ovedo,  scowling  dark 
ly  at  a  gentleman  sitting  at  some  dis 
tance  away,  alone  with  Bella  Prescott. 
It  was  Paul  Mallane  ;  and  he  had  been 
much  astonished,  during  the  evening, 
at  the  offensive  and  aggressive  manner 
of  the  Don,  which  was  full  of  an  assur 
ance  that  he  had  never  observed  in  it 
until  now.  Pensive  and  tearful,  Bella 
had  departed  from  Busyville  two  weeks 
before.  Paul  had  neither  seen  her  nor 
sought  her  since.  It  had  taken  him 
the  entire  two  weeks  to  lose  from  his 
own  the  touch  of  a  sweet,  pathetic  face, 
and  to  get  over  that  farewell  look.  He 
had  done  it,  he  thought.  He  could  not 
have  what  he  wanted — what  he  some 
times  wanted  so  much ;  but  he  could 
have  Bella,  who  loved  him  so  dearly 
that  her  love  had  changed  her  charac 
ter,  and  had  made  her  amiable  and  gen 
tle.  If  he  couldn't  have  that  house  of 
his  own  building — for  which,  after  all, 
he  would  have  had  to  have  worked 
very  hard — he  could  have  Marlboro,, 
which  in  itself  was  well  worth  having. 

''Bella,"  he  said,  "the  bond  'which 
held  me  from  you  when  we  last  walked 
together  is  broken.  I  am  free.  I  have 
the  right  to  make  you  happy.  Will 
you  marry  me  ?  " 

"  Thank  you ! "  she  said,  drawing 
herself  up,  her  eyes  gleaming  with  tri 
umph,  her  attitude  and  expression 
changing  as  utterly  as  if  she  were  turn 
ing  into  another  person.  "  I  knew  be- 
fiore  I  left  that  the  shop-girl  had  jilted 
you.  All  I  went  to  your  wretched  lit 
tle  town  for,  was  to  separate  you  from 
her.  You  were  awfully  in  love  with 
her,  weren't  you  ?  and  yet  not  man 
enough  to  stand  by  her  and  own  her  in 
defiance  of  me.  We  are  quits  now.  I 
am  paid  for  all  you  ever  cost  me.  I 
would  really  like  to  oblige  you,  Mr. 
Mallane,  but  I  am  engaged  already  to 
Don  Ovedo." 


1U 


ElRtNK : 


CHAPTER  XI. 


ANOTHER  LIFE  BEGUN. 

WHEN  Eirene  returned  to  a  full  con 
sciousness  of  existence,  one  late  Autumn 
morning,  she  found  herself  in  her  own 
room  at  Hillside. 

Her  first  sensation  was  that  she  had 
slept  for  a  night,  and  just  awakened  from 
an  awful  dream,  of  which  she  had  but  a 
confused  remembrance.  By  slow  de 
grees  it  came  to  her  what  it  was.  It 
was  then  that  she  turned  her  face  to  the 
wall,  and  a  numbness  like  death  crept 
over  her.  And  yet  through  that  numb 
ness  stole  the  consciousness  that  she 
must  arise,  go  forth  again  to  life,  and  live. 
"It  is  all  over,  and  this  is  the  end,"  she 
said.  "  All  that  made  my  life  is  gone,  and 
yet  I  must  live  on.  Paul !  Paul ! "  cried 
the  sweet,  pathetic  voice;  no  answer 
broke  the  cold  silence  of  the  room. 
"  Death,  death  in  life,"  she  murmured, 
"  and  yet  I  must  live." 

Alice  Vale  looked  down  pityingly  on 
her  grand-child.  St.  Elizabeth  looked 
out  upon  her  with  angelic  eyes.  She 
looked  back  on  them  now  with  a  new 
vision;  she  saw  a  meaning  in  their  faces 
that  she  had  never  seen  before.  It 
seemed  ages  past  since  she  looked  up  at 
them  as  a  child,  and  saw  them  only  as 
lovely  faces.  Everything  in  the  room 
was  unchanged:  even  the  glass  full  of 
crysanthemums  stood  on  the  table.  It 
seemed  to  her,  as  if  far  away  in  another 
life,  she  remembered  a  girl  who  used  to 
sit  by  that  table  and  inhabit  that  room  ; 
but  this  girl  seemed  to  have  no  relation 
ship  to  herself.  The  girl  who  used  to  sit 
there  had  a  serene  brow  and  a  tranquil 
heart;  it  had  never  entered  into  her 
thoughts  even  to  conceive  of  what  a  wo 
man  may  suffer  and  yet  live.  What  could 
she  ever  have  known  of  the  white-faced 
woman  whose  beseeching  eyes  now  res 
ted  unconsciously  on  the  pictured  faces 
above  her. 


She  slowly  rose  at  last,  and  lifting  the 
white  curtain  looked  out  of  the  window. 
There  was  the  river,  and  the  meadow, 
and  the  roadside  maples  dropping  their 
scarlet  and  gold,  and  the  field  of  tobacco, 
but  not  as  she  had  watched  one  year  be 
fore,  its  luxuriant  leaves  prophesying  a 
prodigal  harvest.  It  looked  stunted, 
sickly,  prematurely  yellow,  as  if  the 
worms  had  already  eaten  up  its  life. 
As  she  saw  this,  Eirene  gave  a  start.  The 
sight  drew  her  instantly  away  from  her 
self;  it  gave  her  the  sudden  consciousness 
of  an  interest  in  Life,  a  something  which 
needed  her,  for  which  it  was  her  duty  to 
strive  and  live;  and  the  soul,  true  to  its 
instinct,  reached  out  toward  that  which 
remained.  "Poor  father,"  she  said,  "it 
the  tobacco  should  fail,  everything  would 
fail ;  Hillside  would  have  to  go  away  from 
us.  Father  and  mother  and  Win  all 
needing  me,  and  I  yet  feeling  that  I  can 
not  live,  I  will — I  will  try  to  live  for 
them.  My  life  is  past,  it  is  dead,  it  is 
buried ;  I  must  begin  another,  0,  if  I 
knew  how  to  begin."  Just  then  she 
heard  her  father's  step ;  it  sounded  heavy 
and  slow,  yet  irresolute,  as  he  entered  the 
little  sitting-room  below.  The  doors  were 
open,  and  she  heard  him  say:  "Mother, 
old  Mr.  Pomson  is  dead,  and  his  son  has 
written  to  me  that  he  shall  foreclose  the 
mortgage  and  take  the  place  this  fall." 
There  was  no  answer,  yet  Eirene  knew 
that  her  mother  sat  by  the  window  be 
low.  She  could  see  the  lines  tighten  about 
her  mouth,  the  old  look  of  suffering  and 
of  endurance  contending  in  her  patient 
eyes.  She  saw  the  look  of  hopelessness, 
of  helplessness,  on  her  father's  face,  and 
her  own  soft,  white  features  grew  sud 
denly  strong.  These  words  of  her  fath 
er's  had  told  her  what  life,  her  life  meant. 
They  had  told  her  also  how  to  begin. 
She  no  longer  had  any  doubt.  She  felt 
no  weakness.  Her  work  was  plain. 


A  WOMAN'S  RIGHT. 


115 


God  would  give  her  strength  and  show 
her  how  to  do  it. 

She  drew  a  shawl  over  her  and  went 
quickly  down  to  her  father  and  mother. 
They  were  startled  at  the  sight  of  her — 
at  the  sight  of  this  child  of  theirs  who 

I  had  been  lying  as  silent  and  as  white  for 
weeks  as  if  she  were  dead. 
"  I  heard  what  you  said,"  father,  she 
exclaimed;  "we  have  been  expecting  it 
a  long  while,  and  now  it  has  come.  I 
shall  go  away  again  to  work,  somewhere, 
where  I  can  earn  more  than  I  ever  have 
before  I  hope.  The  way  will  be  opened 
I  am  certain.  The  Lord  will  never  for 
sake  mother,  whatever  he  may  do  for  the 
rest  of  us." 

"  No,  I  hope  not,"  said  Lowell  Vale,  in 
a  tone  of  utter  hopelessness,  ';  but  the 
only  way  that  I  ever  saw  is  shut  up ;  the 
worm  is  in  the  tobacco.  If  I  could  only 
have  the  crop  I  had  last  year,  we  couM 
keep  the  house,  but  I  never  was  lucky !  " 

"  Never  mind,  father,  there  must  be  an 
end  to  bad  luck  as  to  everything  else  in 
this  world.  It  may  be  my  luck  to  go 
out  and  make  a  fortune,  who  knows?  I 
will  write  to  Tilda." 

It  seemed  easy  to  talk  bravely,  stand 
ing  there  looking  into  the  helpless  faces 
of  her  father  and  mother,  but  a  few  mo 
ments  after  when  she  faced  the  situation 
alone,  she  was  appalled  by  it.  Hillside 
to  be  sold,  the  home  that  they  had 
always  known,  nothing  to  redeem  it; 
where  were  they  to  go,  what  were  they 
to  do  ?  And  after  all,  could  she,  work  as 
hard  as  she  might,  could  she  earn  money 
enough  to  support  all?  There  was  but 
one  resource — she  was  writing  to  Tilda. 

"  I  told  you  so  I  I  told  you  so  1  long 
ago,  and  you  gave  no  heed,"  said  that 
uncomfortable  damsel,  as  the  very  next 
evening  she  sat  facing  Eirene  in  her  own 
room  at  Hillside.  "  I  told  you  how  it 
would  be — that  that  man  would  be  the 
ruin  of  you." 

"  You  never  knew  how  it  would  be," 
said  Eirene  in  a  calm,  cold  voice;  "  you 
do  not  now  know  how  it  has  been,  and 
you  can  never  know.  I  have  one  favor 
to  ask  for  myself,  Tilda :  that  you  will 
never  in  the  remotest  way  speak  of  this 
to  me  again." 


She  was  so  unlike  the  trembling  girl, 
this  white-faced  woman  in  her  cold  and 
gentle  dignity,  that  Tilda's  only  exclama 
tion  was,  "  Well  I  I  never  saw  a  human 
being  so  changed." 

"  I  am  very  grateful  to  you,  Tilda,  for 
your  great  kindness  to  me.  God  will  re 
ward  you,  I  know ;  yet  I  must  claim  this 
promise  of  you  for  myself." 

"  Of  course  I'll  promise ;  it's  no  pleasure 
to  me  to  mention  the  rascal." 

"There!"  she  exclaimed,  seeing  the 
look  of  pain  that  passed  over  Eirene's  face. 
"  I'll  never  mention  him  again  bad  as 
I  hate  him." 

"  I'll  write  to  my  brother  to-day.  He 
said  that  I  was  to  come,  or  I  was  to 
send  somebody  I  ain't  going  where 
there  ain't  no  means  of  grace.  You  don't 
care  for  them,  more's  the  pity.  But  you 
can  have  the  place  for  certain.  And 
may  the  Lord  preserve  you  in  that  great 
Babylon." 

Tilda  had  come  to  Hillside  expressly 
to  comfort  Eirene,  and  to  tell  her  that 
she  had  a  place  provided  for  her;  but 
of  course  she  could  not  proceed  to  ad 
minister  consolation  till  she  had  first 
vigorously  applied  her,  "  I  told  you  so," 
to  Eirene,  and  reminded  her  of  the 
great  error  of  her  life. 

She  said  that  her  brother  had  long  been 
the  proprietor  of  a  notion  and  furnishing 
shop  in  New  York.  The  cares  of  an 
increasing  family  made  it  difficult  for  his 
wife  to  attend  upon  customers,  and  he 
had  written  to  her  to  come  and  take  her 
place.  This  was  the  situation  which  she 
offered  Eirene,  and  which  Eirene  accept 
ed.  The  one  anxiety  left  now  was  wheth 
er  she  could  out  of  her  small  wages  pay 
sufficient  rent  to  the  person  who  might 
buy  Hillside  to  retain  it  still  as  the  family 
home.  This  now  remained  the  one  de 
sire  of  her  heart.  She  sat  pondering 
over  it  the  evening  after  Tilda  left.  To 
morrow  was  to  be  the  day  of  the  sale. 
Deacon  Smoot  had  been  over  the  prem 
ises  that  day,  with  an  eye  to  buying  the 
place  for  his  son  Amzi,  who  was  about 
to  marry.  If  it  passed  into  the  posses 
sion  of  Amzi,  there  would  not  be  the 
slightest  chance  of  renting  Hillside :  for 
that  very  day  she  had  heard  him  tell  his 


116 


EIRENE: 


father  what  changes  he  would  make  in 
the  old  house. 

If  he  secured  it,  where  were  her  father 
and  mother,  Win  and  Pansy,  to  go? 
She  could  not  think  of  an  empty  house 
at  Hilltop,  not  one.  0!  how  hard  to 
part  with  this  life-long  home !  Yet  the 
pang  in  her  heart  at  this  thought  sent 
no  tears  to  her  eyes  as  it  would  have 
done  once.  This,  too,  could  be  lived 
through,  could  be  met.  What  could 
come  to  her  now  that  she  could  not 
bear — that  she  could  not  meet! 

Just  here  the  gate  clicked,  and  looking 
up  she  saw  a  tall  and  dashingly  dressed 
young  man,  whom  at  first  she  did  not 
recognize,  but  as  he  came  nearer  she  saw 
that  it  was  Moses  Loplolly.  He  had 
changed  from  an  awkward  boy  into  an 
awkward  man  since  he  bade  her  good- 
by  with  his  parrot,  two  years  before. 
His  dress  was  emphatically  "  loud."  He 
wore  pantaloons  of  a  large  plaid,  a  yel 
low  waistcoat,  a  scarlet  necktie,  green 
glass  studs  in  his  shirt  bosom,  a  blue 
coat,  and  a  tall,  black,  shiny  hat  set  on 
one  side  of  his  head.  His  eyes  were 
more  like  gooseberries  than  ever,  his 
face  was  covered  with  bright  brown 
freckles,  his  pale  tow  hair  plastered  tight 
to  his  head  with  pomade.  His  bony 
hands  looked  much  too  large  for  his 
sleeves,  and  he  held  tightly  under  one 
arm  a  parcel  tied  up  in  a  newspaper. 

"Why  Moses!"  said  Eirene,  "you 
have  grown  to  be  such  a  large  man,  I  did 
not  know  you." 

"No?  Wa'al!  it  seems  a  great  while 
sence  you  knowed  me,  Rene,1'  said  Mr. 
Loplolly  in  an  injured  tone. 

"  Yes,  I  have  been  gone  a  long  time," 
she  replied  in  a  remote  voice  which 
seemed  to  indicate  that  she  had  been  ab 
sent  centuries,  "  but  I  am  glad  to  see 
you,  Moses  ;  sit  down." 

"  I  haint  no  objections,  I  cum  to  sit 
down.  I  don't  complain,  Rene,  of  the 
time  yer've  been  gone,  fur  yer  cum 
back  ot'en  enuf  if  I  could  have  seen 
yer  when  yer  did  cum.  But  it  was 
awful  tough  on  a  chap  to  feel  hisself 
forgot,  'cause  he  wasn't  so  good  look 
ing  as  a  scrumptious  feller  down  in 
town. 


"But  I  don't  harbor  no  hard  feelins, 
not  now." 

"  I  hope  not,  Moses.  My  feelings 
toward  you  have  never  changed.  I 
have  always  thought  of  you  as  a  very 
kind  friend." 

"Wa'al,  sometimes  it's  good  to  be 
thought  on  as  a  friend,  and  sometimes 
'taint  so  satisfyin. 

"  I  tell  yer,  you've  been  a  mighty 
sight  more  to  me  than  a  friend  when  I've 
thought  on  yer,  and  that  haint  been  sel 
dom;  an'  I've  seen  no  end  of  gals  on  my 
rounds,  hansum  gals,  real  smart  gals, 
more'n  one  on  em'  I  might  a  had  fur  the 
winkin' ;  they  didn't  seem  to  think  me 
sech  a  bad-looking  feller,"  said  Moses, 
straightening  up  in  his  splendor. 

"But  somehow,  when  I  looked  on  'em, 
I  did  not  see  'em,  I  saw  you,  and  I'd 
say  to  myself,  '0,  you  ain't  no  account 
with  all  your  fixens  I  What  are  all  on  ye 
side  Rene,  who  haint  even  got  a  bosom 
pin  !'  I  tell  yer,  Rene,  I  never  see  no 
body  that  I  sot  so  high  by  as  I  sot  by 
you." 

"I  am  very  sorry,  Moses." 
"  There,  now  don't  say  so,  don't  I  Look 
a  here,  Rene.  Do  you  know  I'm  a  mer 
chant  now,  I'm  a  travellin'  merchant! 
I'm  a  peddlin',  an'  I  tell  you  peddlin'  pays. 
I  own  my  team,  the  spankinest  team  on 
the  road ;  I  own  my  wagon,  a  perfect 
beauty,  red  and  yaller ;  I  own  my  stock, 
an  there  haint  nothin'  I  haint  got,  from 
an  Irish  poplin,  that  women  is  sich  death 
on,  to  a  tin  pepper  box.  An'  " — here  he 
lowered  his  squeaking  voice  into  a  sort 
of  exultant  and  mysterious  chuckle,  "  I've 
got  a  pile  of  money  in  the  bank  besides  ! 
You've  no  idear  how  peddlin'  pays." 

"No,  I  haven't,"  said  Eirene;  but  as 
all  the  frauds  committed  by  these  itine 
rant  gentlemen  which  she  had  heard  of 
from  her  childhood  came  back  to  her 
memory,  she  thought  that  she  ought  to 
have  some  idea  of  it. 

"  I  am  glad  if  you  are  growing  rich, 
Moses,";  she  said  "you  are  so  kind  and 
generous,  you  deserve  to  succeed.  I  know 
you  would  not  make  any  of  your  money 
by  taking  advantage  of  people  :  then  you 
will  enjoy  all  you  make." 

"Oil  enjoy  it  now,  and  no  mistake," 


A  WOMAN'S  RIGHT. 


117 


declared  Moses,  "  and  the  truth  must  be 
told  to  you,  Rene :  I've  told  a  good  many 
whoppers,  I  had  to,  Rene,  trade's  trade. 
I  cheat,  but  I  strike  for  justice.  I'll  tell 
you  who  I  gouge  —  them  big  red-faced 
wimen,  with  little  round  eyes  and  screw 
mouths.  I  tell  yer  I  like  to  scroug'e  'em. 
They've  no  end  of  money  from  their 
butter,  eggs,  and  cheeses,  locked  up  in 
their  buros.  I  said  to  one  t'other  day, 
•All  wool  and  silk,  every" thread  on't, 
couldn't  find  sich  an  alpacker  at  Stew 
art's  for  the  price.'  I  know'd  it  was  all  cot 
ton  one  way,  I  wasn't  going  to  tell  her ; 
I  sold  it  fur  twice  as  much  as  it  wus 
wu'th.  Then  I  went  into  the  kitchen, 
an'  to  the  poor  gal  workin'  there  like  a 
galler  slave,  I  sed,  'If  yer  want  this 
pink  frock  yer  can  hev  it  fur  half  it  cost.' 
That's  the  truth,  an'  the  poor  gal  got  the 
frock.  I  cheat,  but  you  see  I'm  just. 

"  I  didn't  cum  here  to  talk  trade  with 
you,"  he  added  in  disgust;  " I'm  cum  fur 
su'thin'  mighty  difFrent,  I  tell  yer." 

Eirene  looked  up  as  if  to  divine  by  his 
face  what  that  purpose  might  be,  but 
she  did  not  ask. 

"  Look  a  he-er,"  said  Moses,  drawing 
a  little  closer,  and  squeaking  a  little 
lower.  "Look  a  he-er,  I'll  tell  you 
when  I  felt  the  most  as  if  peddlin'  paid ; 
'twas  when  I  thought  I  was  makin'  all 
my  money  for  you.  When  I  sed  it's  all 
for  Rene,  didn't  I  skin  close!  When  I 
sed  I  must  hurry  an  git  tin  enough  to 
outshine  them  scrumptious  fellers  in 
Busyville,  didn't  I  spank  along  the  road 
and  no  mistake !  Why  all  I  peddled  fur 
was  you,  Rene.  Hovv'd  you  suppose  I 
felt  when  I  heerd  of  that  other  chap  ? 
Wa'al,  I  felt  as  if  peddlin'  didn't  pay  no 
more — all  the  pleasure  was  clean  gone 
out  of  peddlin'. 

"  I  know  everything,  Rene :  don't  look 
as  if  yer  felt  bad  while  I  tell  yer.  When 
I  heerd  it,  I  sed,  '  My  time  hez  cum. 
Mebby  now  there'll  be  some  chance  fur 
me ;  Moses,  screw  yer  courage  up  an'  go 
an'  see.'  One  thing's  sartin,  nobudy  ever 
sot  so  high  by  you,  Rene,  as  I  sot  by  you. 
Don't  go  away !  I've  got  money  to  buy 
the  house;  the  family  can  stay  on  jist 
the  same.  We'll  git  merried.  I  don't  ask 
no  higher  privilege  on  earth  then  to  ped 


dle  fur  you  all  my  life.     You'll  merry 
me,  won't  you,  Rene  ?  " 

"No,  Moses;  don't  feel  bad  while  I 
say  so.  There  is  no  one  in  the  world 
that  I  want  to  marry." 

"  Ther'  aint  ?  It's  sum  comfort  that 
there  aint  no  other  chap  you  want ;  I 
couldn't  stan'  that,  I  couldn't.  Do  say, 
Rene,  there'll  be  a  chance  for  me  sum 
time." 

"  I  can't  say  it,  Moses.  I  can't  say 
what  I  may  do  some  time,  but  I  shall 
have  to  feel  very  differently  from  what 
I  do  now  if  I  ever  marry." 

"  0,  dear !  When  everything  might 
go  so  slick ;  I'll  paint  up  the  old  house, 
an'  buy  new  carpets  an'  furnitur',  an'  not 
another  woman  in  Hilltop  should  hev 
sich  frocks  as  you'd  hev.  My!  I 
couldn't  sit  on  my  box  when  I'd  be 
drivin'  hum  on  a  Saturday  night  with 
no  end  of  presents  to  you.  To  think 
how  it  might  be,  an'  now  it  can't,  be 
cause  you  won't — and  here  I  brought 
you  this  for  the  engagement  present." 
And  he  began  to  unfold  the  newspaper 
which  covered  his  bundle,  revealing  a 
roll  of  chameleon  silk,  crossed  with  soft 
purple  and  sea-green  hues. 

"  I  picked  it  out  on  purpose  for  yer, 
Rene,  in  Bosting,"  he  went  on  mourn 
fully.  "  Some  how  it  looked  as  if  it  was 
made  fur  you ;  I  like  stunnin'  things  my 
self,  but  they  aint  your  sort.  See,"  he 
said,  gathering  the  silk  in  his  hand  and 
smoothing  its  soft  folds,  "  aint  it  jist  like 
a  dove's  thrut?  Exactly!  My!  how  love 
ly  you'll  look  in  it,  but  I  can't  see  yer !  " 

''  You  don't  mean  that  you  want  to 
leave  the  silk  now  ?  "  asked  Eirene  in 
astonishment.  "I  can't  take  it,  Moses. 
You  don't  know  how  I  appreciate  your 
kindness  to  me — your  life-long  kindness 
— how  keenly  I  feel  it  now,  and  her 
voice  trembled,  but  I  cannot  accept  obli 
gations  to  you  which  I  have  no  power 
to  repay.  It  was  very,  very  good  of 
you  to  think  of  me,  and  buy  me  such  a 
lovely  dress.  I  thank  you  more  than  I 
can  say,  but  you  must  take  it  back." 

"  Can't  do  it,"  said  Moses  doggedly, 
"  I  bought  it  for  yer;  nobody  else  shant 
never  wear  it.  Do  you  think  I  could 
bear  to  see  'em  in  it!  Do  you  think  I 


118 


EIRENE: 


could  take  and  sett  it,  arter  I  bought  it 
fur  you  ?  No !  I  can  scrouge  them  that 
deserves  it,  but  I  can't  sell  what  I 
bought  on  purpose  for  you,  an'  ther'  aint 
nobody  else  I  would  give  it  to,  I  can 
tell  yer.  Yourn  it  is,  an"  yourn  it  shall 
be,"  and  with  this  proclamation  Moses 
laid  the  silk  on  Eirene's  lap. 

She  did  not  know  what  to  say. 
Words  of  thanks  seemed  so  poor  and 
cheap.  She  felt  her  poverty  more  keenly 
than  ever,  because  it  made  it  impossible 
for  her  to  give  to  Moses  a  parting  gift  in 
return.  There  was  nothing  she  could  say, 
except — "  I  shall  never  forget  your  kind 
ness,  Moses,  and  you  know  I  always  have 
been  and  always  shall  be  your  friend." 

"  Ther'  aint  no  doubt  that  you  are  my 
friend,"  said  Moses  dejectedly ;  "  I'm  sure 
I'm  yourn.". 

"There,  don't  be  so  downhearted.  I 
am  going  away  to  seek  my  fortune. 
Boys  always  do,  you  know.  Come! 
wish  me  well,  all  the  more  for  being  a 
girl :  that  will  make  it  harder  for  me  to 
find  it,  you  know.'* 

"  Yes,  a  tarnel  sight.  I  couldn't  wish 
you  nothin'  but  well,  Rene,  no  matter 
what  you  did.  But  I  must  say  'tis  hard 
on  a  feller  when  I'm  willin'  an'  thankful 
to  take  care  on  yer,  that  yer  won't  be 
took  care  of  an'  stay  tu  hum.  I'm  sure 
you're  too  hansum  to  go  alone  to  that 
great  pesky  place." 

Eirene's  white  cheeks  flushed  scarlet 
at  these  words ;  a  feeling  of  terror  struck 
through  her  heart  as  she  realized  she 
was  going  into  an  unknown  world  alone, 
but  she  made  no  answer. 

"  I  might  as  well  go  one  time  as 
t'other,"  said  Moses,  refusing  to  be  com 
forted  ;  "  ther'  aint  no  use  in  good-bys  no 
how.  I'll  see  you  to-murrow,  but  if  I 
don't  hev  no  chance  to  say  no  more 
don't  forget,  Rene,  now  nor  never, 
you'll  never  find  nobudy  to  set  so  high 
by  yer  as  I've  sot  by  yer,  never  !  " 

And  with  this  he  waived  his  long, 
bony,  freckled  hand  in  the  air  tragically, 
and  went  down  the  garden  path. 

Eirene's  eyes  followed  him  ;  they  took 
in  the  lank,  shambling  figure  with  its 
vulgar  attire,  but  it  was  not  of  them 
that  she  thought.  She  could  think  of 


nothing  but  the  genuineness  of  his  devo 
tion,  and  of  the  pain  which  she  had 
caused,  and  of  both  with  equal  regret. 
When  he  was  fairly  in  the  road,  and,  as 
he  thought,  hidden  by  the  maples, 
Eirene  saw  him  take  his  bright  handker 
chief  from  his  pocket  and  wipe  his  eyes. 
From  that  very  spot  she  had  seen  an 
other  face  turn  back  :  how  bright  a  face, 
how  full  of  promise  in  its  tender  good-by. 

"  Where  are  you  now !  "  she  exclaim 
ed;  "  another  weeps  for  me,  and  you  !  " 

Hillside  was  sold  at  auction  the  next 
day,  and  to  everybody's  astonishment 
Moses  Loplolly  outbid  Amzi  Smoot,  and 
became  its  owner. 

"Wa'al  yes,"  he  said,  after  the  sale,  to 
Lowell  Vale,  "  You  may  pay  me  sich 
rent  as  comes  handy,  I  haint  no  objection 
to  take  all  I  can  git,  but  I  shant  move  ye 
if  yer  don't  pay  nothin',  haint  no  sech 
ideer.  Go  on  a  farmin',  old  man,  jest  as  if 
daddy  Pomson  hed'nt  kicked  the  bucket. 
Sorry  yer  'baccur  haint  dun  no  better 
this  year.  But  whate'er  else  ye  do, 
don't  let  Aerknow;  if  you're  grubbin', 
tell  me  !  I've  got  the  chink,  am  gitten* 
more  all  the  time,  peddlin'  pays !  Come 
to  me  if  times  get  too  rubbin'.  Don't 
keep  her  scrimpin'  an*  pinchin'  till  she 
haint  a  smich  of  nothin'  left  to  keep  soul 
an'  body  together,  don't !  That's  all  I  ask, 
and  so  farewell  till  I  come  round  agin." 

And  with  these  words  Moses  Loplolly 
departed  without  entering  the  house, 
leaving  Lowell  Vale  in  a  daze  of  aston 
ishment,  standing  in  the  yard. 

He  was  not  to  be  driven  out  of  Hill 
side  after  all!  but  the  one  who  had  pre 
vented  his  becoming  an  outcast,  who  had 
secured  his  home  for  him,  was  not  the 
rich  and  handsome  son-in-law  in  Cam 
bridge,  who,  in  spite  of  clearer  reason, 
had  sometimes  risen  before  his  impracti 
cal  brain  as  the  future  possible  savior ;  it 
was  not  he,  but  poor  freckled  Moses, 
whom  all  Hilltop  pronounced  in  his  hum 
ble  beginnings,  i;0f  no  account!  " 

Eirene  was  to  start  before  daylight 
with  Muggins  and  her  father  for  the 
early  train. 

She  had  just  had  her  last,  long  talk 
with  her  mother,  as  that  dear  one  put  the 
coffee-pot  on  the  stove  and  set  the  table 


A  WOMAN'S  RIGHT. 


119 


for  an  untimely  breakfast.  Now,  before 
lying  down  to  sleep,  she  sat  down  to 
gather  up  her  mental  and  spiritual  forces, 
and  to  take  another  lingering  look  at  the 
little  room  in  which  she  had  lived 
through  all  her  childhood,  and  through 
the  one  crisis  of  her  life.  Already  it  had 
taken  on  the  sad  look  of  change.  St. 
Elizabeth  had  descended  from  her  shrine 
on  the  wall,  and  now  laid  face  prone 
within  the  little  old  hair-covered,  brass- 
nailed  trunk  which  Alice  Vale  brought 
to  Hilltop  fifty  years  before.  Her  grand 
daughter  had  just  placed  her  last  treasure 
within  it,  and  pressed  the  old  lock  down, 
and  as  she  did  so  her  tears  had  fallen  on 
it.  Then  she  sat  back  and  gazed  at  the 
quaint,  old  thing  which  was  to  be  her 
only  companion  out  into  the  great  world. 
This  moment  she  felt  afraid  of  that 
world,  and  something  like  fear  struck 
through  her  heart  as,  with  the  closing  of 
the  trunk,  she  realized  that  she  was  to 
go  out  into  it  alone.  •  She  would  have 
been  much  more  terrified  had  she  had 
any  real  conception  of  its  dangers  and 
temptation  to  a  woman  beautiful,  young, 
and  unprotected.  As  it  was,  her  very 
ignorance  and  innocence  stood  her  in  the 
place  of  courage.  Her  dread  came  only 
from  the  fact  that  to  her  it  was  all  un 
known  and  she  must  go  out  into  it  alone. 

Even  the  whistle  of  the  wind  in  the 
trees  and  the  rush  of  the  river  in  its 
narrow  bed  took  on  the  sounds  of  the 
untried  life — the  roar  of  the  far-off 
streets — and  she  wondered  how  she 
would  be  able  to  meet  it. 

She  had  already  reached  that  crisis  in 
life  when  a  woman  of  opposite  nature, 
disappointed  and  wounded  in  her  affec 
tions,  turns  toward  the  prizes  of  intel 
lect  and  ambition,  and  sallies  forth  into 
the  great  world  in  search  of  a  crown. 

It  never  occurred  to  this  girl  that  such 
a  thing  was  possible  to  her.  Of  the  rich 
endowments  of  her  mind  as  personal 
possessions  she  had  no  consciousness, 
much  less  that  it  might  be  possible  for 
her  to  use  them  to  build  up  a  splendid 
fate  for  herself  in  the  world.  The  realm 
of  letters,  the  realm  of  art  she  knew 
were  both  in  this  vast  world  into  which 
she  was  going ;  both  in  a  dim  and  dis 


tant  way  had  a  charm  for  her ;  she  had 
read  of  and  worshipped  the  queens  of 
women  who  had  reigned  therein.  How 
remote  and  inaccessible  seemed  these 
realms.  How  high  up  and  unapproacha 
ble  seemed  these  regnant  women  1  She 
could  never  enter  one  or  see  the  other, 
she  would  have  thought,  but  she  did  not 
think  at  all  of  this  enchanted  world,  in 
which  the  beautiful,  the  gifted,  and  the 
prosperous  dwell.  She  was  only  think 
ing,  poor  little  sordid  soul,  of  the  furnish 
ing  shop  which  she  was  going  to  tend ; 
whether  she  could  ever  earn  enough  in 
it  to  pay  the  rent  and  send  Win  to 
school.  It  cannot  be  denied  her  ideas 
of  this  shop  were  romantic  and  exag 
gerated  in  the  extreme.  It  seemed  to 
her  a  very  mint  in  which  she  would  coin 
money.  Five  whole  dollars  a  week! 
What  a  fortune  !  Then  she  fell  to  won 
dering  if  she  would  feel  frightened  when 
she  found  herself  alone  in  the  roaring 
streets,  till  she  grew  alarmed  where  she 
sat,  with  only  the  river  rushing  through 
the  silence. 

Her  heart  filled  with  gratitude  as  she 
thought  that  it  was  Tilda  who  had  se 
cured  this  golden  chance  to  her ;  it  was 
poor,  forgotten  Moses,  now  grown  so 
rich,  who  had  purchased  the  shelter  for 
her  father  and  mother,  two  persons  who 
not  only  were  not  necessary  to  her,  but 
were  personally  actually  irksome.  Yes, 
it  was  to  these  two  that  she  owed  shel 
ter  and  sustenance,  while  the  one  loved 
better  than  all  others,  the  one  who  had 
promised  so  much,  from  him  she  had  re 
ceived  nothing  but  loss  and  anguish. 

She  wondered  if  it  was  always  thus 
in  life,  that  the  ones  whom  we  love  and 
lean  on  most  are  the  ones  who  fail  us  at 
the  last ;  and  if  those  who  support  us  in 
our  need  must  be  those  on  whom  we 
have  no  claim,  and  from  whom  we  never 
expected  anything.  Then,  although  she 
was  "not  a  Christian,"  according  to 
Tilda's  standard,  she  kneeled  down  once 
more  by  the  bed,  where  she  had  kneeled 
from  early  childhood,  and,  with  silent  up 
lifted  face,  with  tears  dropping  from  her 
closed  eyelids,  she  prayed  the  Father  for 
his  blessing  to  rest  upon  those  who  were 
left,  and  upon  the  one  who  was  to  go. 


120 


EIRENE : 


CHAPTER   XII. 


THE  OBEAT  CTTT. 


TWILIGHT  was  folding  the  great  city  in 
its  shadow  as  she  drew  near  it.  How 
many  descriptions  have  been  written  of 
the  emotions  of  hope  and  fear  struggling 
within  the  heart  of  a  young  man,  as  he 
approaches  for  the  first  time  the  vast 
world  of  the  unknown  metropolis  to  be 
gin  life  and  to  seek  his  fortune.  But 
who  has  portrayed  the  emotions  of 
the  young  girl,  pure,  innocent,  and  all 
alone,  when  for  the  first  time  she  ap 
proaches  the  unknown  world,  unless  it 
has  been  to  portray  that  for  her,  beauti 
ful,  young,  poor,  and  lonely,  awaits  but 
one  fate  in  the  cruel  city — suffering  or 
ruin. 

As  the  rocky  lawns  and  fields  of 
Westchester  and  the  blue  out-line  of  the 
Sound  merged  into  dusty  villages,  and 
at  last  into  what  seemed  to  her  to  be 
endless  streets,  along  which  the  sentinel 
»  gas  lights  had  already  begun  to  flame,  a 
strange  tumult  of  expectation  and  dread 
took  possession  of  Eirene's  heart.  All 
the  frightful  stories  that  she  had  ever 
heard  of  young  girls  being  seized  and 
carried  off  to  dreadful  places  on  their 
entering  a  strange  city  rushed  into  her 
mind.  What  after  all  if  she  should  miss 
Mr.  Stade,  if  he  should  not  be  abte  to  re 
cognize  her,  or  if  he  should  not  come  at 
all,  what  was  to  become  of  her  and 
where  should  she  go?  Her  heart  was 
almost  numb  with  dread,  and  her  white 
face  was  pressed  against  the  window  of 
the  car  in  mute  expectancy,  as  the  engine 
with  ringing  of  bells,  the  screaming 
hackmen,  and  pushing  of  passengers, 
rushed  into  the  great  black  railroad 
house.  Everybody  seemed  to  be  run 
ning  into  everbody's  arms;  men,  women, 
and  children,  jostling  and  exclaiming, 
with  bundles,  baskets  and  babies,  were 
disappearing  in  stages  and  carriages. 
No  familiar  face  approached  her  out  of 


the  excited  throng.  Tilda  had  told  'her 
that  she  could  not  help  knowing  her 
brother  because  he  looked  so  much  like 
his  sister.  Eirene  strained  her  eyes,  but 
saw  no  one  who  bore  the  slightest  re 
semblance  to  Tilda  Stade.  In  her  ignor 
ance  she  had  been  too  timid  to  give  her 
check  to  the  express  agent,  thus,  amid 
her  growing  terror  for  herself,  she  was 
full  of  anxiety  for  the  precious  little 
brass-nailed  trunk.  How  was  she  ever  to 
find  it,  amid  the  avalanche  of  travelling 
houses  that  on  porters'  carts  went  crash 
ing  by  !  It  was  anything  but  a  romantic 
sight — Eirene  amid  the  men  and  flaming 
lanterns  in  the  great  black  station-house, 
holding  the  tears  back  in  her  frightened 
eyes,  while  she  vainly  peered  amid  the 
piles  and  piles  of  toppling  trunks  for  the 
little  old  box  of  Alice  Vale. 

"  Here,  me  dear,  give  me  your  check, 
and  go  and  sit  ye  doon  while  I  luk  for 
ye,"  said  a  gray-haired  man  with  a  lan 
tern,  who  evidently  belonged  to  the 
place.  "Never  ye  mine  them  yelpin' 
fules,  an'  mine  ye  tek  ne'er  one  of  ther 
fine  kerridges  they  shout  about  so  loud. 
Go  an'  sit  ye  doon,  an'  I'll  luk  a  bit." 

"A  stray  lam',  indeed,"  he  muttered  to 
himself  as  he  stumped  away.  "  It's 
strange  to  me  the  Almighty  ever  lets 
such  kume  to  a  place  like  this,  craving 
His  pardon.  An'  here  it  is,"  pulling  the 
trunk  out  from  a  pile  which  had  almost 
hidden  it.  "An'  I  should  say  I  had  me 
own  gran'-mither's  box,  it's  as  like  the  one 
she  kep'  full  of  fine  caps  under  her  bed 
as  two  peas.  I  never  see  nought  like  it 
this  side  of  the  water  afore,  an'  yet  sure 
it's  the  gel's;"  and  giving  it  another  pull 
he  dragged  it  forth,  and  then  after  him 
till  he  came  stumbling  back  to  where 
Eirene  sat  wiping  the  tears  from  her 
eyes.  Alas !  no  one  could  have  looked 
less  like  a  heroine  than  our  maiden 
wiping  her  eyes  above  her  fearfully 


. 


A  WOMAN'S  EIGHT. 


121 


beating  heart  in  the  New  York  station- 
house. 

"  Here,  me  bairn,  's  ye'er  box — as  like 
me  own  gran'-mither's  as  a  box  cude 
well  be.  An'  more,  if  ye  can  tell  an  owld 
gran'-faather  jes  where  ye  want  to  go, 
he'll  go  an  fine  an'  honest  man  to  tek  ye 
there." 

Eirene  gave  the  number  on  Harlem 
road  to  which  she  wished  to  go. 

"  An'  a  long  bit  off  'tis,"  said  the  old 
man,  studying  the  card. 

"  Mebby  it's  to  Timothy  Stade's  you 
want  to  go  to,"  said  a  shambling,  slink- 
ing-looking  individual,  who  had  added 
greatly  to  Eirene's  fright  during  the 
absence  of  the  old  man  by  walking  up 
and  down  near  by,  eyeing  her  askance. 

"  It  is  to  his  house  I  want  to  go,"  said 
Eirene  in  a  tone  of  infinite  relief. 

"  I'm  him  ;  I  thought  mebby  you  was 
her,  and  then  I  thought  you  wasn't.  But 
I  kep'  my  eye  on  you.  It's  a  long  way 
to  Harlem.  If  you'll  take  hold  o'  one 
end  of  y'er  trunk,  I  will  t'other.  Can 
put  it  in  front  of  the  car,  I  reckon." 

Eirene  arose  to  do  as  she  was  bidden, 
but  first  handed  a  silver  quarter  to  the 
old  man. 

"  No !  I  teks  my  share,  but  nought 
from  ye.  Here  man,  tek  it  and  give  it 
to  an  expressman  to  tek  the  leddy's 
trunk.  Where  have  ye  been  livin' 
that  ye're  asking  a  leddy  to  tu-g  and 
lu-g?" 

"  It  is  not  heavy,"  said  Eirene,  who 
that  instant  forgot  the  books  in  the  bot 
tom,  and  thought  only  of  her  light  ward 
robe. 

She  took  hold  of  one  handle  while  the 
Stade  individual  proceeded  to  take  hold  of 
the  other,  and  the  old  man  looked  on  with 
wondering  and  disapproving  eyes.  He 
gazed  after  them  as  they  went  down  the 
long  station-house,  the  young  girl  sway 
ing  under  the  weight  of  her  burden,  the 
slinking  man  shuffling  and  shambling 
along  as  if  ready  to  drop  it  at  any  in 
stant,  though  perfectly  able  to  carry  the 
whole  weight  upon  his  own  shoulders. 

"  Weel,  weel !  that  the  like  of  him 
could  come  to  fetch  the  like  of  her  is 
b'yond  my  ken !  "  muttered  the  old  man. 
"  I'd  a  teken  the  box  mysel'  cude  I  a 


left  this  old  house,  for  a'  of  that  pretty 
bairn  a  tugin  it." 

"  A  lam'  and  a  fox !  an  uncanny 
fox,  sure,  sure  !  May  the  gude  shepherd 
Hi'sel'  keep  that  pretty  lam',  is  my 
prayer." 

Eirene,  weak  from  long  sickness, 
nearly  sank  under  her  load  long  before 
she  reached  the  Third  Avenue  cars. 
They  were  packed  with  workmen  going 
home,  and  stifling  with  offensive  odors. 
Eirene  stood  all  the  way,  wedged  into 
this  reeking  mass,  and  reached  Harlem 
too  prostrated  to  be  able  to  take  scarce 
any  note  of  her  surroundings.  Mrs. 
Timothy  Stade  and  her  infants  were 
sleeping  the  sleep  of  the  abused  and 
the  dirty,  thus,  save  the  husband  and  fa 
ther,  she  saw  no  member  of  the  house 
hold  that  night. 

The  morning  sun  struggled  in  through 
speckled  windows  to  behold  the  stranger 
in  a  small  room  crowded  with  children 
who  waked  her  with  laughter  and 
screams,  while  they  dragged  about  the 
bed  clothes  and  chased  each  other,  and 
fought  from  trundle-bed  to  trundle- 
bed. 

"  If  you  are  to  be  here,  it  shall  be  to 
be  my  help  as  well  as  hisen."  said  a  sharp 
voice,  and  Eirene,  lifting  her  weary 
head  from  a  soiled  pillow,  saw  that  it 
belonged  to  a  very  damaged-looking 
young  woman,  who  had  once  been  pret 
ty,  and  who  now  had  her  hair  in  curl 
papers.  Her  wrapper  was  soiled  and 
torn,  and  she  looked  in  every  way  much 
dilapidated. 

(:I  am  Mrs.  Timothy  Stade."  she  said, 
opening  the  door  wider  and  coming  in. 
"  I  may  as  well  tell  you  first  as  last  that 
I  never  wanted  you  to  come  here.  If 
there's  to  be  help,  I  want  it  my  help, 
not  Stade's.  Goodness  knows  I  need 
help  with  all  these  children!  Drudge, 
drudge,  and  never  a  smitch  of  change. 
I  want  a  girl  for  the  kitchen,  not  one 
for  the  shop.  The  shop's  my  place.  It's 
my  shop.  It  was  mine  afore  I  ever  set 
eyes  on  Tim  Stade.  Curse  the  day  I 
ever  gave  him  a  right  in  my  shop,  an' 
here  he's  driv'  me  out  of  it,  and  has  the 
face  to  put  another  woman  in  it,  and 
shut  me  back  in  the  kitchen  to  take  care 


122 


EIRENE  : 


of  the  young  ones.  He'll  see  if  I'll 
stay  shut  out  of  my  own  shop  1  And  you 
may  as  well  know  first  as  last  that  I 
•wont  stay  out  of  it,  and  if  you  do  stay 
you'll  be  my  help  as  well  as  hisen.  I 
want  you  to  dress  the  children." 

The  suddenness  and  sharpness  of  this 
unexpected  tirade  at  first  left  Eirene 
powerless  to  reply.  As  soon  as  she 
could  command  her  voice,  she  said : 

"I  am  sorry,  Mrs.  Stade,  if  there  is 
any  misunderstanding  about  my  coming 
here.  I  supposed  that  it  was  your  wish 
as  well  as  Mr.  Stade's." 

"  Well,  it  aint,"  she  exclaimed,  going 
out  and  slamming  the  door,  that  ever 
ready  relief  to  vulgar  minds. 

Eirene  arose,  with  an  almost  blinding 
headache,  and  began  to  try  to  dress  the 
children.  They  were  like  so  many  wild 
cats.  They  understood  the  meaning  of 
slaps  and  punches,  of  jerks  and  hard 
names,  but  not  that  of  such  gentleness 
as  hers.  As  an  expression  of  their  ap 
probation  of  her  mildness,  they  began  to 
teaze  her,  and  play  with  her,  in  their 
way — pulling  her  hair,  jumping  on  her, 
screaming  in  her  ears,  till  with  her  dis 
tress  to  find  out  which  particular  rag  be 
longed  to  each  particular  child,  and  her 
headache,  she  found  herself,  when  she 
was  called  to  breakfast,  almost  in  a  state 
of  distraction.  She  could  cry  her  eyes 
out,  she  felt  sure  of  that,  but  how  could 
she  eat  her  breakfast?  And  such  a 
breakfast,  amid  the  screams  of  the  chil 
dren,  the  slaps  of  the  mother,  and  the 
whines  and  grumbling  of  the  father. 

Then  the  shop  1  one-half  of  it  might 
be  called  a  small  emporium  of  tape,  pins, 
and  needles,  and  cheap  cotton  lace ;  the 
other  was  devoted  to  a  small  soda  foun 
tain,  to  root  beer,  and  to  penny  sticks  of 
candy,  for  which  the  wretched  little 
children  in  the  street  were  perpetually 
coming  in. 

Before  she  had  been  in  this  place  an 
hour,  Eirene  was  perfectly  certain  that 
she  could  not  stay  in  it.  But  where 
was  she  to  go  ?  Back  to  Hilltop  ?  No, 
there  was  no  work  for  her  there.  Back 
to  Busyville?  She  could  not!  No, 
the  great  city  must  give  her  work  to 
earn  her  bread.  Even  if  she  could  stay 


here,  how  her  five  dollars  a  week  had 
dwindled  down;  with  her  board  and 
lodging  taken  out  of  them,  what  would 
be  left ! 

Mrs.  Timothy  Stade  belonged  to  the 
large  race  of  abused  women.  She  was 
an  abused  woman !  To  pity  herself  as 
such  was  the  only  comfort  that  she  had 
left.  What  she  said  o/  her  shop  was 
true.  It  was  hers,  at  least  the  cotton 
lace  and  soda  fountain  were  her's,  be 
queathed  to  her  by  her  dead  mother. 
Tim  Stade,  the  shiftless,  ne'er-do-well 
son  of  his  tribe,  appeared  at  her  counter 
on  his  way  to  the  luck  which  he  had 
come  to  the  city  to  find :  and  which  he 
felt  sure  was  his  when  he  drank  soda- 
water  and  ate  peanut  candy  with  a  black- 
eyed,  ringleted  maid  in  her  own  estab 
lishment.  They  were  married  and  pros 
pered  at  first.  Tim  sat  from  morning  till 
night  on  a  bench  by  the  door  airing  and 
sunning  himself,  and  gossiping  with  his 
cronies,  while  the  shop  supported  him. 
His  wife's  black  eyes  and  red  cheeks 
still  helped  to  attract  susceptible  youths 
from  Westchester  to  the  soda  fountain 
and  small  beer  bottles,  and  all  went 
well.  Mrs.  Timothy  Stade,  in  an  undi 
rected  way,  was  "  a  business  woman." 
Left  to  herself,  in  due  time  she  would 
have  drawn  a  small  fortune  out  of  her 
soda  fountain  and  cotton  lace.  It  was 
her  life  to  "  tend  shop,"  and  her  misery 
to  keep  house,  and  she  took  most  un 
kindly;  to  the  care  of  small  children. 

Thus,  when  at  the  close  of  seven 
years,  six  cherubs  roared  and  rioted  in 
the  bed-clothes  in  the  room  above,  when 
her  beauty  was  so  dreadfully  damaged, 
and  her  hair  refused  longer  to  curl,  she 
felt  herself  to  be  a  deeply  aggrieved 
woman ;  and  when  insult  was  added  to 
so  much  injury  in  the  form  of  a  younger 
and  prettier  woman  to  attend  on  her 
shop,  the  wrath  of  Mrs.  Timothy  reach 
ed  its  climax.  It  was  expended,  not  on 
the  cause  of  her  troubles, — the  spite  of  an 
ignorant,  injured  woman  seldom  is — but 
on  an  innocent  person. 

"  You  shall  not  stay  in  my  house,  you 
shall  not  I"  she  exclaimed  on  the  morn 
ing  of  the  second  day.  Through  the 
screaming  of  the  children,  the  steam  of 


A  WOMAN'S  RIGHT. 


123 


] 

i 


•washing  suds,  and  the  fumes  of  pork  and 
cabbage,  and  one  day  more  of  the  drud 
gery  never  done,  her  rage  had  risen  to 
this  height  toward  the  pale,  quiet  young 
lady,  who  by  a  process  Mrs.  Tim  could 
not  understand  had  come  to  serve  in  her 
shop.  The  very  contradiction  between 
the  girl's  presence  and  the  place  in  which 
she  stood  helped  to  increase  the  irrita 
tion  of  the  unfortunate  Mrs.  Timothy. 
That  one  so  fair  and  gentle,  who  looked 
so  unmistakably  a  lady,  even  in  a  poor, 
unassuming  dress,  should  stand  in  her 
place  while  she  worked  over  a  roasting 
stove,  without  a  minute  to  take  down 
her  curl  papers,  was  what  Mrs.  Timothy 
could  not  and  did  not  endure. 

Her  fiat  was  welcome  to  Eirene. 
Where  on  the  wide  earth  she  could  go 
she  had  not  the  faintest  idea,  but  it  seem 
ed  to  her  anywhere,  if  she  could  but  see 
the  sky  above  her  head,  and  breathe  for 
a  moment  God's  air,  would  be  a  relief — 
a  mercy  after  this  atmosphere.  Poverty, 
want  even,  she  could  bear  without  a 
murmur,  but  what  made  life  seem  un 
endurable  was  noise,  contention,  quarrel 
ling  and  dirt. 

"  If  I  had  known  that  I  had  been  ask 
ed  to  come  here  contrary  to  your  wishes, 
Mrs.  Stade,  I  never  should  have  come," 
said  Eirene  quietly,  turning  toward  the 
bedroom  above  in  pursuit  of  her  bonnet. 
She  tied  it  on,  and  came  down  stairs 
with  nothing  in  her  hands. 

"  I  will  send  for  my  trunk  as  soon  as  I 
can,"  she  said. 

"Where  are  you  going?"  asked  the 
amazed  Mrs.  Timothy. 

"I  don't  know." 

Like  many  another  violent  woman, 
Mrs.  Timothy  was  frightened  at  the  ex 
tent  of  her  own  execution.  She  intend 
ed  to  drive  the  girl  away,  to  put  herself 
n  her  place,  and  a  drudge  in  the  kitch 
en,  but  that  it  could  be  accomplished  in 
such  a  short  space  of  time  she  had  not 
deemed  possible.  A  girl  in  the  shop  or 
a  girl  in  the  kitchen  was  a  chronic  source 
of  contention  between  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Stade.  The  latter  had  acquiesced  in  the 
reposition  of  a  girl  from  the  country, 

lieving  that  she  would  be  just  the  one 
to  banish  to  the  cook  stove.  Had  one 


dropped  out  of  the  skies  she  could  not 
have  been  more  astonished  at  her  than 
she  was  at  the  aspect  of  the  one  who  ap 
peared  from  Hilltop.  She  knew  that 
she  was  an  utter  stranger  in  the  city, 
and  thought  that  it  would  be  a  long 
struggle  to  get  rid  of  her.  To  see  her, 
without  a  look  of  anger,  or  a  word  of 
recrimination,  turn  and  go,  actually  go 
down  the  dusty  Harlem  street,  without 
one  glance  back,  leaving  her  foe  on  her 
own  ground,  did  not  give  that  foe  so 
sweet  a  feeling  of  triumph  as  she  wished. 
Tim  was  down  town  buying  a  new  stock 
of  lemons  and  Cjjndy,  to  meet  the  in 
creased  demand  which  he  was  sure  the 
new  face  would  bring;  for  foxy  Tim, 
lazily  watching  on  his  bench  by  the 
door,  had  at  least  acquired  a  keen  eye 
for  effects :  he  was  perfectly  certain  that 
the  new  face  would  draw  many  a  one  to 
the  soda  fountain,  which  the  dilapidated 
one,  set  amid  its  unwilling  ringlets,  never 
could  again.  So  there  would  be  a  fight 
with  Tim  when  he  came  back  and  found 
the  girl  gone !  Under  the  circumstan 
ces  Mrs.  Tim  dreaded  that,  in  spite  of 
her  long  practice,  and  many  triumphs ; 
for  Tim  was  not  without  a  latent  mascu 
line  facility  for  taking  his  revenge  in  his 
own  way,  and  Mrs.  Tim  had  know  him 
to  take  it  in  a  way  most  exasperating  to 
her  feelings. 

Eirene  walked  on  rapidly  toward  the 
great  city.  She  received  no  adequate 
impression  of  it  through  the  darkness  in 
which  she  entered  it.  It  was  all  new 
to  her  now,  as  from  the  high  ground  she 
strained  her  eyes  to  follow  its  vast 
length,  reaching  far  on  between  its  two 
bounding  rivers.  She  had  never  seen  a 
great  city  before.  It  seemed  to  uplift 
her  as  it  drew  her  on  and  into  its 
vastness.  Its  sight  gave  her  a  sensation 
of  buoyancy,  as  if  she  were  being  borne 
on  without  effort,  the  same  which  came 
to  her,  long  afterwards,  when  she  gazed 
on  G-uido's  Aurora,  and  seemed  borne 
on  by  her  coursers  through  the  clouds. 

At  last  she  faced  the  world  !  All  alone, 
young,  lovely,  a  woman,  with  nothing  in 
her  hand,  and  very  little  in  her  pocket. 
Whither  was  she  going  ?  She  had  not 
even  asked  yet.  Filled  with  the  sense 


124 


EIRENE : 


of  sudden  relief,  and  the  new  sensation  of 
wonder,  she  had  not  yet  thought.  Be 
sides,  it  was  morning.  Even  difficulty 
looks  easy  in  the  morning.  The  morn 
ing  exhilaration  was  in  the  air.  the 
morning  splendor  on  the  sky,  that  seem 
ed  near  which  would  seem  impossible  at 
night.  How  many  girls,  alas !  how  many, 
young  and  innocent  as  she,  enter  the 
city  as  she  did  that  morning,  enter  it 
only  to  meet  dishonor  and  death.  Whom 
should  G-od's  ministering  angels  follow 
if  not  these  !  She  could  not  help  it.  At 
first  the  only  impulse  she  felt  was  to 
hasten  away  from  the  dreadful  abode 
which  she  had  just  left.  Not  till  she 
reached  ]Jnion  Square,  many  miles  from 
the  spot  whence  she  started,  did  she 
realize  that  she  was  tired,  or  that,  hav 
ing  reached  the  heart  of  the  city,  she 
must  seek  shelter  and  work. 

The  little  children  were  playing  in  the 
paths  with  their  nurses :  their  very  faces 
rested  her.  The  willows  swung  over 
the  broad  basin  of  the  fountain  and 
made  her  shiver ;  they  were  so  like 
those  other  willows  under  which  she 
had  once  lain  down  as  dead,  but  the 
gold  fishes  flashed  in  the  water,  and  the 
loving  sparrows  hopping  around  her  feet 
fed  from  each  others  mouths.  "Are  ye 
not  of  more  value  than  many  sparrows  ?" 
This  question  of  the  Word  came  to  her 
as  a  promise,  with  an  assurance  unknown 
before,  as  she  watched  them  feed  by  the 
fountain — these  atoms  of  God,  loved  and 
nourished  by  Him  in  the  heart  of  the 
great  city,  wherein  she  stood,  a  stranger, 
with  not  where  to  lay  her  head.  Here 
were  soft  grasses  to  sooth  her  tired  feet, 
restful  shadows,  and  refreshing  waters. 
The  peace  of  nature,  which  had  filled 
her  heart  so  often  in  the  old  woods  at 
home,  touched  it  even  here  through  the 
very  thunder  of  the  streets. 

Everywhere  around  her  in  the  beauti 
ful  streets  running  out  from  the  park, 
she  saw  tall  spires  point  heaven-ward, 
and  it  seemed  to  her  that  not  very  far 
away  she  must  find  some  Christian  soul 
who  would  kindly  give  her  some  honest 
work  to  do.  It  was  past  noon  now — the 
exhilaration  of  the  morning  was  gone. 
Already  a  chill  in  the  air  and  a  just  per 


ceptible  shadow  on  the  sky  told  of  the 
swift  decline  of  the  brief  Autumn  day. 
She  must  not  tarry  a  moment  longer  by 
the  fountain  among  the  sparrows  and  the 
children.  For  the  first  time  she  realized 
that  she  was  tired  and  hungry,  that  she 
had  eaten  scarcely  a  morsel  that  day. 
She  must  not  spend  a  penny  for  food, 
for,  if  she  did  not  get  work,  she  had  not 
more  than  enough  to  pay  for  one  night's 
lodging.  But  some  Christian  woman 
would  tell  her  what  she  could  do  before 
night,  she  felt  sure  of  it,  she  told  herself 
that  she  felt  sure  of  it,  through  the  fear 
quivering  in  her  heart.  She  turned  her 
steps,  which  began  to  falter  a  little,  now 
toward  the  nearest  drug  shop.  There 
was  a  Directory  in  the  drug  shop  in 
Busyville,  there  would  surely  be  one 
here.  She  found  one,  and  sought  at  once 
the  benevolent  institutions  of  the  city, 
the  refuges  for  needy  women.  She 
selected  one,  then  turned  to  the  names  ol 
its  directors  and  their  places  of  residence 
"  I  will  go  to  a  good  woman,  "  she 
said,  "  tell  her  the  truth  about  myself,  and 
ask  her  to  direct  me  to  some  employ 
ment.  "  She  asked  the  policeman  on  the 
corner  the  way  to  such  a  street  and 
number.  It  was  but  a  little  way  off — up 
Fifth  Avenue.  He  kindly  led  the  way, 
pointed  to  the  block,  and  in  a  few  min 
utes  Eirene  found  herself  before  the 
house.  It  was  of  the  sort  that  the  modern 
New  Yorker  delights  to  call  "  palatial, 
one  of  the  high,  grim  brown  stone 
houses  which  make  Fifth  Avenue  "  grand, 
gloomy,  and  peculiar. "  A  handsome 
clarence,  with  liveried  coachman  and 
footmen,  waited  before  the  door.  Eirene 
felt  her  heart  as  well  as  her  knees  giving 
out  as  she  ascended  the  lofty  steps ;  she 
had  never  sought  admittance  to  so  grand 
a  house  before.  Its  heavy  carved  door 
did  not  look  as  if  it  would  open  easily 
or  welcomingly  to  so  poor  a  dress  as 
hers,  and  scarcely  did  the  image  of  the 
Christian  lady  within  which  she  sum 
moned  to  her  help  give  her  courage  to 
ring  the  bell.  It  was  a  meek,  faint  ring 
which  the  waiter  inside  heard.  He  heard 
such  rings  at  the  area  door  often,  never 
before  above,  where  the  rich  and  the 
privileged  only  sounded  the  ring  of  as- 


A  WOMAN'S  RIGHT. 


125 


surance.  He  slowly  opened  the  door  a 
little  way  as  if  only  to  shut  it  again,  but 
when  a  soft  voice  inquired  for  the  lady 
of  the  house  by  name,  he  opened  it  wider 
and  asked  her  to  come  in.  He  looked 
upon  her  face,  and  was  about  to  invite 
her  into  the  reception  room  ;  he  glanced 
at  her  dress,  and  asked  her  to  sit  down 
in  the  hall.  In  a  few  minutes  he  returned 
and  told  her,  "  that  she  might  come  up. " 
While  she  sat  there  two  very  elegantly 
dressed  young  ladies,  the  most  elegantly 
dressed  that  she  had  ever  seen,  swept  by 
her. 

"Did  you  notice  that  girl's  face?" 
asked  one  of  the  other. 

"  Yes,  I  did  ;  I'd  like  such  a  face  my 
self,"  «aid  the  other.  "  How  did  it 
come  above  such  clothes ;  who  is  she,  do 
you  suppose  ?  " 

"  Oh,  one  of  ma's  vagrants,  no  doubt ; 
that  such  creatures  should  manage  to  get 
such  faces  isn't  fair;"  and  the  two  young 
ladies  entered  the  clarence  and  were 
driven  away. 

Eirene,  with  almost  fainting  steps  and 
a  sinking  heart,  followed  the  servant  up 
the  stairs  of  polished  wood,  over  carpets 
into  which  her  feet  sank  like  down  to 
the  door  of  the  apartment  where  his  mis 
tress  sat  under  the  hands  of  her  hair 
dresser.  She  was  a  tall,  high-nosed 
woman,  with  an  awful  manner,  sitting 
before  a  toilet  mirror  reading  a  book 
supported  on  an  ebotiy  stand.  She 
waved  her  hand  as  Eirene  entered,  mo 
tioning  to  a  chair  without  speaking  a 
word,  and  went  on  with  her  reading. 
She  was  the  daughter  of  a  mechanic  in  a 
New  England  village,  and  grew  up  in  a 
pine  box  of  a  house  no  better  than  her 
neighbors',  neither  of  which  facts  ab 
stractly  were  to  her  discredit.  Never 
theless,  their  memory  made  her  cultivate 
a  magnificence  of  manner  which  one  of 
gentle  birth  would  have  deemed  unne 
cessary  and  underbred.  When  it  suited 
her  pleasure  she  lifted  her  eyes  from  her 
book,  and,  with  the  air  of  a  queen  giving 
audience,  asked  Eirene  what  she  wanted. 

Eirene  told  her  that  she  wanted  em 
ployment,  any  honest  work  that  would 
give  her  shelter  and  protection.  In  a 
few  words  and  with  a  faltering  voice, 


she  told  how  the  place  she  thought  pro 
vided  had  failed  her,  and  that  she  was  a 
stranger  and  alone  in  the  city. 

"But  have  you  no  references,  no  re 
commendations  whatever?" 

Eirene  acknowledged  that  she  had 
none. 

"  That  is  questionable,  indeed  suspi 
cious.  Have  you  none  from  your  last 
place  of  employment  ?" 

Eirene  said  no,  but  that  she  could 
send  and  get  one  from  her  former  em 
ployer. 

"Oh!  that  would  amount  to  nothing, 
it  must  be  your  last  place  of  employment. 
Young  females  of  proper  character  are 
seldom  without  recommendations;  it 
is  a  very  suspicious  fact  that  you  should 
come  a  stranger  alone  to  a  great  city 
without  a  simple  certificate  of  good 
character.  You  are  what  '  our  Board ' 
call  a  very  unsatisfactory  case.  You 
seem  to  be  neither  one  thing  nor  the 
other.  You  have  no  references,  as  a  re 
spectable  female  should  have,  and  I  am 
not  quite  prepared  to  say  that  you  come 
within  the  pale  of  our  Institution  as  an 
abandoned  female.  You  have  not  yet 
attained  the  look  of  an  abandoned  fe 
male  even  if  you  are  one.  Our  asylum 
is  for  abandoned  females,  and  our  office 
for  young  women  well  recommended. 
You  do  not  come  within  the  pale  of  our 
society  at  all.  unless  you  are  an  abandon 
ed  female.  If  you  are  one,  you  needn't 
hesitate  to  tell  me ;  I  am  used  to  them, 
— send  them  to  asylum  every  week." 

By  this  time  Eirene  had  risen.  Night 
was  coming;  she  could  stay  no  longer 
here. 

"  Perhaps,"  she  said  in  a  broken  voice, 
"  you  will  be  so  kind  as  to  direct  me  to 
some  place  where  they  would  trust  me 
for  a  few  days  till  I  can  get  my  reference. 
I  did  not  think  of  getting  one  before  I 
left,  because  I  supposed  the  place  that  I 
was"  coming  to  to  be  certain." 

"  That  proves  you  to  be  a  very  impro 
vident  person.  Nothing  in  this  world  is 
certain  but  death.  Adele,  that  twist  is 
too  high,"  surveying  her  head  in  the 
glass,  "  and  the  arrow  pricks  me,"  pulling 
out  a  gold  arrow  from  the  coil  behind. 

"  Wait  a  moment,"  to  Eirene.    "  I  will 


126 


EIRENE : 


give  you  a  Testament,  and  an  excellent 
tract  called  '  Seed  Corn.'  I  hope  you 
will  peruse  them  both;  they  will  benefit 
you  greatly.  And  I  will  give  you  the 
card  of  a  lady  up  town.  Your  case 
will,  I  think,  come  within  the  limit  of 
her  society." 

She  slowly  arose  from  under  the  hands 
of  her  hair- dresser,  studied  the  effect  of 
her  coiffure  in  the  mirror,  then  proceeded 
slowly  to  a  writing-desk,  took  from  it 
the  Testament,  tract,  and  card,  and  with 
an  air  of  remote  condescension  handed 
them  to  the  unfortunate  girl  standing  by 
the  door. 

"Yes,  I  am  quite  sure  that  you  are 
within  the  pale  of  her  society,"  she  said 
again,  as  if  to  reassure  some  doubt  with 
in  herself.  "  If  you  are  obliged  to  wait 
for  a  place,  it  will  teach  you  a  lesson 
which  every  person  in  your  situation 
must  learn — to  be  provident,  provident. 
It  is  best  you  should  learn  by  experience. 
It  is  a  matter  of  principle  with  me  that 
such  persons  as  you  are  should  always 
learn  by  experience." 

Eirene  was  never  quite  certain  how 
she  found  her  way  out  of  that  awful  pre 
sence.  But  she  did,  and  herself  again 
in  the  street  a  few  moments  later,  with 
the  Testament,  card,  and  "Seed  Corn" 
in  her  hand. 

Again  the  aid  of  a  kind  policeman 
was  invoked,  ten  pennies  were  reluc 
tantly  parted  with,  and  Eirene,  in  a 
Fifth  Avenue  stage,  was  being  jolted  up 
town.  She  found  the  lady's  house,  but 
not  the  lady.  She  was  out  of  town, 
would  be  absent  a  week  or  more ;  of  her 
"Guardian  Society"  Bridget  Mavour- 
neen  at  the  door  "  knowed  nought,"  she 
said. 

Again  on  the  street.  It  was  night 
now,  and  she  miles  from  either  point  from 
whence  she  had  started.  She  went  on 
she  knew  not  whither,  only  she  must 
find  a  safe  shelter  for  the  night ;  and*  to 
morrow,  to-morrow,  the  sun  would  shine 
again,  the  world  would  be  before  her, 
and  the  promise  of  the  sparrows  would 
be  fulfilled.  But  now!  The  awful 
heaven  was  above  her,  dark  and  moon 
less;  the  awful  city,  no  longer  bright  and 
beckoning,  but  black  and  dreadful  behind 


its  glittering  lamps,  seemed  to  shut 
every  door  against  her.  And  here  were 
her  fellow-creatures,  thousands  of  them, 
crowding  by,  whether  hoping,  fearing, 
struggling,  or  triumphant,  each  alike  as 
remote  from  her  as  if  moving  on  another 
planet.  Here  were  women  in  twos, 
walking  up  and  down  the  pavement, 
many  others  alone  like  herself,  but  not 
like  her  shrinking  and  afraid.  No,  they 
moved  on  as  if  pacing  their  own  draw 
ing-rooms,  many  of  them  gorgeously  at 
tired.  Some  of  them  minced  and  strutted, 
and  talked  and  laughed,  and  bowed  their 
head?,  and  seemed  to  know  many  people. 
What  did  it  mean  1  They  seemed  to 
feel  more  at  home  in  the  street  than  she 
could  be  in  any  house.  She  passed  a 
hotel  with  portico  and  pavement  crowded 
with  men.  Two  women,  slowly  sailing 
on  before  her,  turned  and  talked  and 
bowed  as  if  they  knew  each  gentleman 
whose  eyes  they  met.  What  did  it  all 
mean  ?  Were  these  the  women  that  she 
had  read  about;  and  through  all  her  de 
solation  a  pang  of  pity  struck  her  heart 
for  them.  "  And  I,  I  am  in  the  street,  soli 
tary,  houseless  1 "  No  man  reading  these 
words  can  by  any  effort  of  his  mind  im 
agine  what  the  terror  was  which  struck 
through  the  heart  of  this  girl  at  such  a 
thought.  "  Father  in  Heaven,  take  care 
of  me  I  "  was  her  silent  cry. 

Where  are  you  going,  Sweety  1 " 
said  a  voice  out  of  the  crowd  ;  the  mere 
human  sound  made  her  turn  her  head 
and  lift  her  face.  The  man  who  had 
spoken  saw  it,  and  without  another  word 
went  on. 

"  Ladies'  Entrance,"  she  read  over  the 
side  door  of  the  hotel.  It  was  closed 
and  looked  quiet  and  solitary ;  any  lady 
might  safely  enter  here.  She  tottered 
with  weakness  and  terror  as  she  as 
cended  the  steps  and  rang  the  bell.  She 
asked  the  door-tender  for  the  ladies' 
parlor.  It  was  easily  found,  a  quiet, 
luxurious  room,  softly  lighted,  with 
ladies  in  rich  evening  dresses,  and  ele 
gant  gentlemen  sitting  about  and  chat 
ting  on  the  sofas.  She  asked  a  servant 
whom  she  met  in  the  hall,  if  be  would 
say  to  the  proprietor  that  a  stranger 
wished  to  speak  with  him  in  the  parlor. 


A  WOMAN'S  EIGHT. 


127 


And  now  as  she  sank  upon  a  chair  near 
the  door,  it  seemed  to  her  that  she  could 
never  rise  again.  Some  of  the  occupants 
of  the  room  noticed  her  homely  dress 
and  cottage  bonnet,  and  wondered  what 
she  wanted  there.  Others  noticed  her 
face,  white  almost  as  snow,  every  drop 
of  blood  drained  from  it,  lit  with  two 
eyes  that  shone  like  stars  with  the  light 
of  hunger  and  fear. 

"  Madam,  your  wishes  ?"  said  an  im 
portant  voice,  a  few  moments  later.  It 
issued  from  a  showily  dressed  young  man 
with  a  dissipated,  disagreeable  face — the 
hotel  clerk,  who  had  just  entered  the 
room. 

"  I  would  like  a  small,  quiet  room  for 
the  night,"  said  Eirene,  speaking  with 
difficulty.  "  I  am  a  stranger  in  the  city 
and  alone." 

Before  she  spoke  it  was  perfectly  evi 
dent  to  the  clerk  that  she  was  a  stranger 
and  alone,  and,  notwitstanding  the  deli 
cate  face,  quite  as  apparent  that  she  was 
also  poor  and  friendless.  He  answered 
her  accordingly. 

"  It  is  contrary  to  the  rule  of  the 
house  to  take  in  any  lady  who  comes 
alone  and  unprotected." 

"  I  have  money,  sir,  to  pay  for  a  room; 
I  hope  to  find  friends  in  the  morning." 

Poor  child !  She  clutched  at  the  dying 
hope  in  her  heart,  that  the  morning 
might  bring  her  friends  as  her  only 
chance  for  a  night's  shelter  ! 

"  Oh  !  money  can't  secure  a  room  to  a 
strange  woman  without  a  protector  in  a 
first-class  hotel." 

"  All  women  cannot  have  protectors, 
sir." 

"  Then  they  should  stay  out  of  New 
York." 

Eirene  had  no  heart  to  deny  this  at 

eh  a  moment. 

"I  thought — I  thought,  sir,  that  public 
houses  always  afforded  shelter  to  such 
when  they  needed  it." 

"  Not  here.  When  such  persons  come 
to  this  city,  they  usually  have  friends  to 
meet  them.  If  not,  they  don't  try  to 
get  into  first-class  hotels." 

"Only  for  the  night,  sir.  To-morrow, 
if  I  can  find  no  employment,  I  will  go 
back  to  my  home.  Only  to-night! 


surely  you  will  not  cast  me  out  upon 
the  street.".  And  at  the  very  thought, 
her  face  grew  ghastly. 

"  Oh,  no !  don't  feel  so  bad.  I  can't 
help  the  rule  of  the  house,  but  I  can 
take  you  to  my  sister's.  You  can  go 
and  stay  in  the  waiting  room  till  after 
the  evening  trains  are  in,  then  I'll  take 
you  to  my  sister's." 

The  words  were  kind  enough,  but  the 
tone !  She  had  never  been  spoken  to 
in  such  a  tone  before.  It  made  her  lift 
her  weary  eyes  to  his  face.  She  had 
scarcely  seen  it  until  now.  It  was  an 
evil  face.  As  she  looked  on  it,  it  struck 
a  terror  to  her  heart;  it  seemed  more 
terrible  than  all  the  streets, — yes,  even 
into  the  street,  she  would  flee  from  it. 

She  lifted  herself  up  painfully.  "  You 
are  not  the  proprietor.  It  is  the  pro 
prietor  of  this  house  that  I  want  to  see." 

"Oh,  you  do  !  The  proprietor  of  this 
house  don't  run  at  every  beggar's  call. 
If  I  am  not  the  proprietor,  I  am  the  one 
to  decide  who  can  enter  it.  You  shan't, 
and  you  shan't  go  back  to  the  street.  I 
see  now  you  want  to.  You  shall  go 
with  me,"  he  said  in  an  undertone. 

"Never." 

She  arose  and  attempted  to  move 
toward  the  near  hall.  The  spirit  was 
strong  to  defy  fate  ;  the  body,  tested  to 
its  utmost  limit,  sank ;  hunger,  terror, 
exhaustion  triumphed.  The  man  knew 
that  they  would.  His  intention  was  to 
have  taken  advantage  of  this  opportunity 
to  have  her  conveyed  wherever  he  wish 
ed.  The  low  conversation  had  not  at 
tracted  attention,  but  the  looks  and 
manner  of  the  young  stranger  had. 

Every  hotel  waiter  is  a  spy.  The  one 
who  called  the  clerk  to  Eirene  was  no 
stranger  to  him,  and  having,  moreover, 
some  personal  wrongs  to  avenge,  and 
being  quite  as  conscious  as  the  clerk 
himself,  that  the  young  woman  who  had 
spoken  to  him  was  beautiful,  poor,  and 
a  stranger,  he  stood  detective,  in  the 
hall  near  the  open  door,  through  the 
entire  scene.  Before  Eirene  reached 
the  hall,  before  she  fell,  he  was  ready  to 
rush  to  Mr.  Eoselle,  the  owner  of  the 
house,  and  to  tell  the  whole  story. 

"  Nothing  but  fainted,"  said  the  clerk 


128 


EIRENE : 


to  a  group  of  ladies  who  came  running 
from  their  sofas  to  see  what  was  the 
matter.  "  I  will  see  that  she  is  taken 
care  of,"  and  he  hurried  off  to  give 
orders  of  his  own,  while  a  lady  took  her 
laced  pocket-handkerchief,  which  had 
never  been  used  for  so  good  a  purpose 
before,  and,  dipping  it  in  ice  water,  be 
gan  to  bathe  the  temples  of  the  pros 
trate  girl. 

"  This  is  not  a  pleasant  sight  to  me," 
said  Mr.  Roselle,  a  few  moments  later. 
"  I  don't  like  to  think  that  such  a  girl 
as  this  has  been  refused  shelter  in  my 
house.  But  it's  always  the  way — inno 
cence  suffering  for  guilt.  The  man  who 
helped  to  bring  this  about  shall  pay  for  it. 
Tom,  you  go  for  the  housekeeper." 

Mr.  Roselle  was  a  powerful  man.  He 
lifted  the  unconscious  girl  in  his  arms  as 
if  she  were  an  infant,  and  his  own  daugh 
ter,  and,  followed  by  the  housekeeper, 
a  little  later  carried  her  to  a  quiet  room 
in  the  house. 

Here,  had  she  been  with  her  own 
mother,  she  could  not  have  been  more 
tenderly  cared  for  than  she  was  in  this 
great  hotel.  Widowed,  and  a  mother 
herself,  the  housekeeper  ministered  to 
her  with  a  mother's  heart.  She  brought 
her  back  to  life,  fed  her,  and  watched 
over  her. 

"Fear  not,  therefore;  ye  are  of  more 
value  than  many  sparrows,"  said  the 
girl,  looking  around,  still  unconscious  of 
her  condition  or  surroundings.  The 
last  thoughts  which  her  heart  sent  up  to 
her  brain  before  she  fell  were  the  first 
to  re-utter  themselves  when  speech 
came  back.  Tears  filled  the  eyes  of  the 
woman  as  she  heard  these  words  spoken 
in  a  low,  quivering,  child-voice.  As  she 
looked  upon  the  face  of  the  speaker,  so 
young,  so  lovely,  and  so  broken,  she 
shuddered,  for  she  knew  the  world  as  it 
was  revealed  to  her  in  a  great  hotel,  in 
a  great  city ;  and  she  knew  the  perils  of 
this  world  to  the  innocent  and  the  poor, 
as  the  poor  child  before  her  even  now 
could  not  know  or  dream  of  them.  It 
made  the  simple  utterance  of  her  faith 
inexpressibly  touching. 

"  I  must  go,"  she  said,  slowly  rising. 

"Where,  my  child?" 


"  I  must  go  and  find  some  work.  It 
is  nearly  night." 

"  Oh,  no,  it  isn't.  It's  only  just  morn 
ing.  You  have  all  day  before  you. 
You  needn't  hurry,  my  dear." 

•'Oh,  I  must.  I  couldn't  walk  any 
faster ;  I  tried.  I  was  afraid  it  would 
be  night  before  I  found  my  work.  He 
said  I  couldn't  stay,  that  I  should  go 
with  him,  that  wicked,  cruel  man! 
How  did  I  get  away  ?  Oh,  if  I  should 
meet  him  again  I  and  it  night !  I  did 
not  know  that  night  could  be  so  terrible, 
when  one  is  a  stranger,  and  all  alone." 

"But  it  is  not  night!  I'll  open  the 
blinds,  and  you  can  see  for  yourself. 
It's  morning,  and  you  are  not  alone,  if 
you  are  a  stranger.  Indeed,  my  dear, 
you  have  found  some  kind  friends." 

"  You  are  kind.  You  are  very  kind. 
Where  am  I?" 

"  You  are  in  a  quiet  corner  of  a  very 
big  hotel — the  one  that  you  strayed 
into  last  night.  It  is  true,  as  a  rule,  it 
is  shut  against  all  strange,  lone  women. 
But  it  is  just  as  true  that  they  are  never 
to  be  insulted.  And  the  man  who  took 
advantage  of  your  loneliness  to  abuse 
you  has  lost  his  place  for  it.  Mr.  Ro 
selle  told  me  to  keep  you  in  the  morn 
ing  till  he  came." 

"Mr.  Roselle?" 

"Yes,  he  owns  this  house,  and  he 
brought  you  up  here  himself.  He  is  a 
good  man.  I  advise  you,  as  a  friend,  to 
follow  his  advice,  whatever  it  may  be, 
my  dear." 

Eirene  passed  her  hand  over  her  fore 
head,  as  if  to  smooth  out  the  confusion 
of  her  brain.  Whenever  she  lost  con 
sciousness,  her  soul  seemed  to  go  mil 
lions  of  miles  away  from  the  earth,  so 
far  that  when  she  came  back,  it  adjusted 
itself  with  difficulty  to  the  old  condi 
tions. 

In  her  troubled  sleep,  she  had  been 
traversing  the  great  streets  again,  all  alone 
in  the  night,  with  that  terrible  man  pur 
suing  her.  Now,  as  it  slowly  came  to 
her  how  it  was,  how  she  had  been  pro 
tected  and  cared  for  in  her  helplessness, 
in  the  very  place  where  even  shelter 
had  been  denied  her,  how  her  Lord's 
promise  had  proved  true  to  her,  beyond 


A  WOMAN'S  RIGHT. 


129 


every  fear,  she  laid  her  face  back  upon 
her  pillow,  and  shed  the  silent  tears  of 
gratitude  and  thanksgiving. 

It  was  past  ten  o'clock  when  Mr. 
Roselle  appeared.  Before  then  Eirene 
had  eaten  a  good  breakfast,  and  clothed, 
and  in  her  right  mind,  with  the  light  of 
a  new-born  hope  and  trust  shining  in 
her  eyes,  she  sat,  scarcely  looking  the 
same  girl  that  was  carried  thither  the 
night  before. 

"  I  have  come  to  ask  you  to  go  with 
me  to  my  wife,  my  child ;  will  you  go  ?  " 
asked  Mr.  Roselle. 

"  I  cannot  express  my  thanks  that  you 
are  willing  to  take  me,"  was  the  answer, 
uttered  in  genuine  gratitude. 

Mr.  Roselle's  family  did  not  live  in  the 
hotel,  but  in  a  private  house  in  an  ad 
joining  street.  Eirene  soon  found  her 
self  in  the  presence  of  a  lady,  delicate 
and  nervous  looking,  but  with  an  ex 
pression  so  exactly  the  reflection  of  her 
husband's  that  she  might  have  been 
taken  for  his  twin  sister. 

He  had  evidently  told  her  all  about 
Eirene,  for  she  received  the  girl  with  a 
kindness  which  was  actually  tender  in 
its  sympathy. 

"  I  feel  quite  sure  that  Providence  has 
sent  you  to  us,  my  dear,"  she  said.  "  I 
have  been  praying  for  weeks  that  I 
might  be  guided  aright  in  the  choice  of 
a  companion  for  my  two  little  grand 
daughters,  whom  we  have  adopted  as 
our  own.  They  have  their  masters 
every  day,  but  I  have  not  been  able  to 
find  a  satisfactory  person  to  superintend 
them  out  of  study  hours,  and  to  go  out 
with  them  every  day.  I  am  not  strong 
enough  to  do  it  myself,  for  I  want  them 
to  walk,  and  to  visit  all  the  places  of  in 
terest  in  the  city,  as  a  part  of  their  edu 
cation.  It  ought  not  to  be  a  servant, 
nor  ought  it  to  be  a  person  so  far  re 
moved  from  them  in  culture  and  interest 
that  she  will  not  answer  their  questions 
or  enter  into  their  feelings.  Don't  you 
think  that  you  could  ?  " 

"  I  could  enter  into  their  feelings ;  I 
am  afraid  I  don't  know  enough  to  an 
swer  all  their  questions,  but  I  would  do 
my  best.  It  would  make  me  very  happy 
if  I  could." 


"  I  don't  doubt  it.  I  like  your  face. 
My  husband  says  that  I  decide  too  im 
plicitly  by  people's  faces,  but  I  can't 
help  it,  and  I  notice  that  he  does  just 
about  the  same  himself.  I  really  believe 
that  Providence  has  sent  you  to  me.  So, 
if  you  should  do  anything  to  prove  to 
the  contrary,  I  should  be  terribly  disap 
pointed.  You  wont,  will  you,  my 
dear?" 

"  Not  if  I  can  help  it.  I  will  write 
to-day  to  the  clergyman  of  my  native 
town,  and  to  his  wife.  They  have 
known  me  ever  since  I  was  born,  and 
can  tell  you  all  about  me." 

"Never  mind,  so  far  as  we  are  con 
cerned.  As  I  said,  your  face  is  quite 
enough  for  me,  and  I  am  far  from  believ 
ing  in  all  faces,  I  assure  you.  You  may 
write  to  your  friends  if  it  will  be  a  sat 
isfaction  to  yourself;  but  do  not  feel 
obliged  to  do  it  on  our  account.  When 
you  feel  rested  and  stronger  you  may 
tell  me  all  your  troubles.  And  I  shall 
believe  every  word  you  say." 

"  Thank  you,  how  good  you  are." 

"Oh,  no!  I'm  far  from  good.  I'll  tell 
you  now,  I  have  a  very  irritable  dispo 
sition.  Little  things  fret  me  almost  to 
death  when  I  don't  feel  well,  and  some 
times  you  will  have  a  very  tedious  time 
with  me.  Everybody  does.  But  my 
friends  all  forgive  me,  for  I  have  the 
hardest  of  it.  Nothing  is  harder  than 
to  know  that  you  are  disagreeable,  and 
not  to  be  able  to  help  it.  But  I  shall 
certainly  try  to  make  your  home  pleas 
ant.  I'll  not  forget  that  I  had  a  daughter 
once " 

Here  Mrs.  Roselle  began  to  weep  in  a 
very  nervous  manner,  and  Eirene  intui 
tively  felt  wherein  she  was  to  comfort 
and  even  support  her. 

Eirene  was  a  born  comforter.  The 
sight  of  this  gentle  lady's  tears  called  all 
her  swift  sympathies  into  action,  and 
when  Mr.  Roselle  entered  the  room  a 
few  minutes  later,  he  found  the  young 
stranger  bathing  his  wife's  temples 
and  soothing  her  as  if  she  had  been  a 
child. 

"  I  told  you,  father,  that  I  felt  Provi 
dence  had  sent  her  to  us,  and  now  I 
know  ik  Such,  a  touch  on  my  aching 


130 


EIRENE: 


head  I  haven'  felt  since  Alice  died,"  and 
she  began  to  weep  afresh. 

"  Don't,  mother  !  "  he  said  tenderly, 
and  yet  imploringly.  "  Don't  give  up  to 
your  feelings  now.  You  know  how  it 
takes  your  strength,  and  how  it  troubles 
me." 

"  Yes.  I  know.  It  hurts  me  to  think 
I  trouble  you,  but  what  a  comfort  it  will 
be  to  have  somebody  at  last  with  whom 
T  can  cry  as  much  as  I  please,  and  it 
wont  trouble !  Some  one  to  whom 
I  can  tell  all  my  feelings;  what  a 
comfort !  " 

"And  what  a  comfort  to  me!"  said 
Mr.  Roselle.  "  I  will  pay  any  one  a 
handsome  salary,  mother,  who  will  let 
you  cry  just  as  much  as  you  wish,  who 
can  enter  into  all  your  feelings  without 
being  worn  out  by  them." 

"  Now,  father,  that  don't  sound  just 
kind,  but  I  know  you  don't  mean  any 
thing,  and  that  I  am  a  trial  crying  so 
much  over  what  you  cannot  help.  It's 
a  trial  because  you  can' t  help  it!"  This 
comforting  thought  revived  Mrs.  Roselle's 
spirits  so  much  that  she  dried  her  last 
tears  herself  and  sat  up,  and  smiled  upon 
her  husband  a  perfectly  enchanting 
smile,  which  he  returned  with  another 
so  tender,  it  was  proof  in  itself  that  she 
was  the  absolute  queen  over  his  heart,  if 
she  was  a  weeping  one. 

"  I  must  tell  you,"  she  said  later  to 
Eirene,  "  that  in  about  two  years  we  in 
tend  to  take  the  girls  to  Europe  to  study. 
You  must  know  this,  so  that  if  you 
should  not  want  to  go  with  us,  though  I 
hope  you  will,  that  you  may  prepare 
yourself  for  a  more  satisfactory  position. 
What  would  you  like  to  do,  dear?" 

Eirene  told  her  that  «he  would  like  to 
qualify  herself  to  be  a  thorough  book 
keeper  and  corresponding  clerk  in  some 
large  establishment  devoted  to  ladies' 
fabrics.  That  she  thought  such  a  posi 
tion  would  command  an  income  ap 
proaching  nearer  to  a  man's  who  devotes 
all  his  time  and  power  to  a  business; 
that  she  had  been  working  towards  it 
as  'fast  as  she  could,  unaided,  and 
alone;  that  she  could  already  read  and 
write  French,  and  had  studied  German. 

"Not  a  bad  idea,"  said  Mrs.  Roselle, 


"  for  one  who  must  earn  her  own  sup 
port.  It  would  give  you  great  inde 
pendence,  my  dear,  and  I  should  say  that 
that  was  something  that  you  surely  need 
to  cultivate,  as  you  have  to  face  the 
world  alone.  You  will  have  time  to  go 
on  with  your  studies  here.  Then  there's 
the  Business  College,  you  can  attend  it 
evenings,  just  as  well  as  not,  and  Pom- 
pey  can  be  sent  for  you.  I  feel  that  I 
have  a  duty  to  do  to  you,  my  child,  and 
I  shall  do  it.  I  shall  help  you  to  help 
yourself,  so  that  as  long  as  you  live  you 
can  carry  your  fortune  with  you,  the 
source  of  an  honorable  competency  and 
position  in  yourself.  I  have  often 
thought  of  it,  if  I  hadn't  a  husband  and 
money,  what  would  become  of  me! 
Why,  my  dear,  if  I  were  suddenly  to  lose 
both,  and  find  myself  a  stranger  in  the 
streets,  I  should  be  worse  off  than  you 
were  last  night.  Nothing  is  so  abjectly 
helpless  as  a  superficially  educated  wo 
man  suddenly  brought  to  want  or  to 
take  care  of  herself.  Mr.  Roselle  thought 
of  this  when  he  saw  you — how  it  would 
have  been  with  me,  or  his  own  daugh 
ter — " 

Here  came  a  fresh  flood  of  tears,  and 
Eirene  spent  at  least  another  hour  consol 
ing  her,  and  listening  to  tender  remin 
iscences  of  her  "  dear,  dead  daughter." 

That  night  Eirene  kneeled  long  by  the 
white  bed  in  the  neat  room  which  she 
was  to  call  her  own.  Forty-eight  hours 
had  not  passed  since  she  started  forth  in 
the  street  alone,  and  here  she  was,  shel 
tered,  protected,  with  the  prospect  of 
usefulness  and  independence  before  her. 
Already  she  had  more  than  she  had  even 
dared  to  ask  or  hope  for,  how  much 
more  !  Already  she  had  what  so  many 
before  her,  alone  and  strange  as  she  was, 
had  sought,  and  sought  in  vain.  And  what 
had  been  their  portion  in  this  great 
Babylon  !  She  shuddered  as  she  thought 
One  day  in  the  streets,  friendless  and 
houseless,  had  proved  to  her  to  what 
extremity  many  such  days  had  brought 
her  sisters.  And  as  she  thought,  here 
on  her  knees,  with  uplifted  face,  and  out 
stretched  hands,  she  vowed  to  God  a 
vow  that  from  that  hour  to  the  last,  as 
she  had  opportunity,  she  would  conse- 


A  WOMAN'S  RIGHT. 


131 


crate  it  all  to  the  help  of  the  poor,  the 
friendless,  the  struggling  of  her  own  sex; 
that  no  woman  should  be  too  depraved, 
nor  too  forsaken  for  her  to  help  accord 
ing  to  her  power.  She  would  do  what 
she  could  to  upbuild  a  self-helping,  holy 
womanhood  in  the  land,  and  she  kept 
her  vow. 

"  To  do  it  I  must  begin  with  myself," 
she  said  as  she  arose  from  her  knees. 

Thus  her  new  life  began.     Like  every 
other  phase   of  human   life,    it  ran  on 
through    sunshine    and    shadow.     Mrs. 
Roselle  told  the   truth  of  herself.     She 
was  one  of  those  lovely,  difficult  women 
of  whom  the  world  is  full.     "  Her  ner 
vous  system   was  perfectly   shattered," 
she  told  her  friends.     And  we  all  know 
that  the  loveliest  woman  on  earth  is  to 
be  dreaded  if  she  has  come  to  make  a 
darling  hobby   of  her  nervous   system, 
above  all  to  dote  upon  it  as  "  perfectly 
shattered."  Mrs.  Roselle's  had  been  treat 
ed  neither  better  nor  worse  than  that  of 
the   average  American   woman   of  her 
class.     Ignorance    of  the  laws   of  life, 
self-indulgence,  and    the   indulgence   of 
others,  with  actual  sickness  and  bereave 
ment,  had  made  her  one   of  that  innu 
merable   host  who  torment  themselves 
and  everybody  else.     Mrs.  Roselle's  in 
tentions  were  always  kind  and  unselfish. 
If  her  "  nerves  "  had  only  allowed  her  to 
carry  them  into  action,  she  would  have 
been  an  angel  upon  earth.     Alas  !  in  ac 
tion  she  was   capricious,  irritable,  and 
unreasonable.     She  had  humored  herself, 
and  been  humored  by  her  friends,  till  it 
was  indispensable  to  her  existence  that 
some  one  should  live  with  her  whose 
whole  business  on  earth  was  to  humor  her 
whims,  and  listen  to  the  story  of  her  ail 
ments   and  afflictions.     This  office  now 
devolved    upon    Eirene.      It    was   one 
which  it  had  been  almost  impossible  to 
fill  by  any  one  outside  of  her  own  family, 
who  dearly  loved  her;  but  here  at  last 
was  a  stranger  whose  patience  and  sym 
pathy  had  never  been  equalled  by  any 
mortal  but  her  own  husband.     Her  plan 
for  Eirene  was  Christian  and  philanthro 
pic,  but  the  more  necessary  that  Eirene 
became  to  her,  the  more  difficult  it  was 
for  her  to  carry  out  her  benevolent  de 


sign  for  her  welfare.  Always  to  have 
one  ready  to  bathe  her  head,  to  listen  to 
her  cry,  to  wipe  her  tears,  to  comfort 
her,  to  sympathize  with  her,  was  a  lux 
ury  of  which  her  shattered  nerves  would 
not  willingly  be  denied.  Thus  it  came 
to  pass  that,  outside  of  the  evening 
hours  actually  spent  in  the  business  col 
lege,  Eirene  found  not  an  hour  to  study, 
save  her  old  ones  when  everybody  else 
slept. 

The  children  were  just  what  the  or 
phaned  grand-children  of  doting  grand 
parents  usually  are — "perfectly  spoiled," 
in  many  respects,  and  yet  retaining 
much  of  the  sweetness  of  temper  and 
integrity  of  character  which  were  theirs 
by  natural  inheritance.  They  were  both 
a  torment  and  a  delight  to  their  youthful 
companion  and  teacher,  for  their  teacher 
she  became,  in  a  deeper  sense  than  any 
paid  master  ever  could  become.  She 
would  weep  over  their  impertinence  and 
ingratitude,  and  forget  it  all  the  next 
moment,  when  she  felt  their  arms  about 
her  neck  and  their  kisses  on  her  mouth. 
The  brightest  hour  of  her  day  was  that 
in  which  she  walked  out  with  them  each 
afternoon.  Then  the  great  city  became 
her  educator.  She  grew  familiar  with 
all  its  public  and  private  galleries  of  art. 
She  learned  not  only  every  picture  shop, 
but  almost  every  picture  in  them.  She 
spent  hours  with  the  children  at  Goupil's 
and  Schauss',  studying  some  of  the  best 
pictures  and  engravings  of  the  world. 
With  Alice  and  Anna  she  visited  her 
early  friends  the  sparrows.  She  told 
them  stories  sitting  in  the  sunshine  by 
the  fountain  in  the  little  parks.  The 
very  spires  of  the  churches  piercing  the 
blue  air  taught  her  something  of  propor 
tion  and  beauty.  Her  relation  with 
Mrs.  Roselle,  whom  she  really  loved, 
gave  her  deeper  lessons  in  patience  and 
self-control.  In  the  business  college  she 
was  laying  the  foundation  of  a  solid  edu 
cation.  Everywhere,  in  sky  and  air  and 
earth,  she  saw  beauty  and  drew  it  into 
her  life.  Thus  her  whole  nature  grew, 
and  her  culture  ^had  already  become  fine 
and  aesthetic. 

In   two  years  the  Roselles  went  to 
Europe.     Mrs.  Roselle  had  a  "nervous 


132 


EIRENE : 


spasm,"  in  which  she  accused  Eirene  of 
ingratitude  because  she  declined  to  go 
with  them.  When  she  came  out  of  it, 
she  took  her  into  her  arms  and  told  her 
she  had  done  right.  She  did  not  know 
how  to  live  without  her,  but  now  her 
nerves  would  let  her,  she  felt  that  she 
had  done  right  in  refusing  to  leave  her 
own  mother  for  so  many  years;  if  it 
were  only  for  a  year  or  two  it  would 
have  been  different.  "  My  own  dear 
child  would  never  have  left  her  mother 
for  so  long,"  she  said,  "  then  how  can  I 
blame  you !  Only  I  don't  know  how  to 
part  with  you!  I  love  you,  my  dear, 
and  you  wont  lay  up  anything  against 
my  poor  nerves?" 

"No,  indeed,"  exclaimed  Eirene,  as 
she  began  to  soothe  her  forehead  with 
her  hand  and  to  bring  her  out  of  another 
spasm. 

They  parted  most  affectionately,  and 
with  many  tears.  Eirene  felt  even  more 
keenly  than  her  friend  how  much  she 
owed  her  in  a  thousand  ways. 

They  never  met  again.  Within  a  3  ear 
Mrs.  Roselle  died,  and  those  shattered 
nerves  found  rest,  let  us  believe,  in  that 
land  whose  inhabitants  we  are  told  are 
never  sick,  and  wherein  there  is  neither 
sorrow,  nor  crying,  neither  any  more 
pain. 

Her  friends  were  gone.  Again  she 
was  alone  in  the  city ;  but  if  alone,  not 
helpless  as  she  was  when  she  entered  it. 
She  had  studied  diligently,  and  without 
flagging.  She  had  won  already  the  cap 
ital  of  the  poor, — the  assured  power  of 
self-support.  To  resolve  in  a  moment  of 
impulsive  strength  to  labor  on  to  a  cer 
tain  end, -is  one  thing;  to  carry  that  re 
solve  into  execution,  through  obstacle, 
opposition,  weariness  and  discourage 
ment,  is  another  and  much  more  difficult 
thing  to  do.  The  bewilderment,  the 
weakness,  born  of  keen  mental  pain,  are 
the  effects  hardest  to  overcome.  Against 
these,  through  many  joyless  hours  and 
days,  Eirene  struggled.  Against  these, 
while  her  heart  cried,  "  Why  strive !  "  she 
still  had  striven,  just  as  she  resolved  to 
do  in  the  little  chamber  at  home,  in  the 
hour  when  she  first  came  back  to  life,  to 
her  life — to  strive,  no  matter  how  long, 


till  she  could  command  the  highest  wages 
of  educated  labor. 

Now,  for  the  first  time  she  found  her 
self  face  to  face  with  the  great  and  un 
solved  problems  of  daily  life,  as  seen  in 
a  vast  city  with  its  inequalities,  its  mis 
ery,  its  temptation,  its  uncertain  rewards ! 
The  problems  of  labor,  of  sex,  of  condi 
tion,  confronted  her.  In  silence  she 
sought  to  work  them  out.  Why  could 
she  receive  not  one-half  of  what  a  man 
would  receive  in  the  same  place  and  for 
the  same  labor?  Was  not  a  part  of  the 
cause  found  in  the  fact  that  she  had  never 
received  a  man's  training,  and  was  not 
supposed  to  bear  a  man's  responsibilities  ? 
But  she  did  bear  a  man's  responsibility 
without  receiving  his  reward.  How 
would  it  be  if  by  right  she  could  .claim 
that?  She  would  try.  She  would  fit 
herself  thoroughly  to  be  a  book-keeper. 
She  entered  the  business  college  in  ad 
vance,  and  such  was  her  proficiency  that, 
at  the  end  of  two  years,  she  received  a 
diploma  from  its  President,  with  a  note 
addressed  to  the  proprietor  of  a  famous 
ladies'  shop  in  the  city.  Her  teacher  said : 
"  Mr.  Mann  has  applied  to  me  for  a  first- 
class  book-keeper  whom  I  can  recom 
mend,  a  lady  preferred.  I  have  chosen 
you.  Mr.  Mann  is  a  just  man,  but  likes 
to  drive  a  sharp  bargain.  You  are  fitted 
to  fill  a  first-class  position.  You  know 
the  salary  such  a  position  commands. 
Ask  for  it,  it  is  your  due,  and  do  not  be 
frightened  when  he  tells  you  that  he  can 
get  somebody  a  great  deal  cheaper.  So 
he  can,  but  he  will  want  you." 

Eirene  approached  the  counting-room 
of  Mr.  Mann  with  many  misgivings,  but 
fortified  by  the  words  of  the  teacher,  she 
presented  her  diploma  and  letter. 

"What  salary  would  you  expect  in 
the  position  ?"  inquired  Mr.  Mann — a 
nervous,  sharp-featured  business  man, 
looking  over  his  spectacles. 

"  As  much  as  you  would  give  a  man 
in  the  same  position,  and  for  doing  the 
same  work,"  said  the  calm,  even  voice 
of  Eirene. 

"  Oh !  That  is  what  we  never  do.  It 
is  the  reason  that  I  applied  at  the  col 
lege  for  a  lady.  I  didn't  want  to  pay 
a  man's  salary,  when  there  are  so  many 


A  WOMAN'S  RIGHT. 


133 


young  ladies  who  would  be  glad  to  fill 
it  for  half  of  the  sum  that  I  should  pay  a 
man." 

"  I  have  studied  long  and  faithfully  to 
fit  myself  to  do  this  work  as  well  as  a 
man  could  do  it.  I  can  translate  and 
correspond  in  French,  also  in  G-erman, 
which  the  President  told  me  would  be  a 
very  important  qualification  in  your  busi 
ness  ;  for  doing  this  I  want  all  that  a 
man  would  get  for  doing  the  same  things, 
or  if  not,  I  will  perform  less  responsible 
labor." 

"  Really,  you  are  very  exacting  in 
your  demands  and  ideas.  Why,  don't 
you  know  that  no  lady  expects  to  receive 
the -wages  of  a  man  ?" 

''  Nor  should  she,  unless  she  is  pre 
pared  to  render  service  equal  to  a  man's. 
But  if  she  can,  is  it  not  unjust  to  deny 
it?" 

"  It  may  be  unjust,  but  we  must  take 
the  world  as  we  find  it.  You  don't  look 
it,  child ;  but  really,  you  are  strong  mind 
ed.  That  is  a  very  dangerous  class  of 
women.  I  would  advise  you  as  a  friend 
to  keep  away  from  them.  Am  sorry  we 
can't  come  to  terms." 

Eirene  felt  a  struggle  going  on  within 
her,  between  her  natural  compliance  and 
her  sense  of  justice.  It  was  hard  not  to 
yield,  not  to  yield  to  her  natural  self-es 
timate  and  say,  "  I  will  take  the  situa 
tion  at  what  you  are  willing  to  pay,"  but 
the  words  of  her  teacher,  and  the  thought 
of  all  that  she  wanted  money  for,  support 
ed  her,  and  made  her  action  stronger  than 
her  impulse. 

Without  a  word,  without  the  slightest 
prospect  of  any  other  place  before  her, 
she  took  her  teacher's  letter  and  diploma, 
and  walked  away. 

The  quiet  dignity  of  the  act  impressed 
Mr.  Mann  more  than  the  most  powerful 
argument  could  have  done.  As  a  busi 
ness  man,  he  depended  much  on  the  re 
commendation  of  the  college  principal. 
He  was  perfectly  aware  that  such  a  per 
son  as  the  teacher  pronounced  the  bearer 
of  the  letter  to  be  would  be  invaluable  to 
him.  And  as  he  watched  the  face  of  its 
bearer  as  she  moved  quietly  away,  he  be 


lieved  every  word  that  the  teacher  had 
said. 

In  spite  of  herself,  it  was  with  a  feeling 
of  discouragement  that  Eirene  laid  down 
that  night. 

"  No  matter  how  competent  or  how 
instructed,  after  all,  how  hard  it  is  for  a 
woman  to  face  the  world  in  the  shape  of 
one  rich  man,  to  ask  him  for  employ 
ment,  without  which  she  cannot  honora 
bly  live,  and  to  have  him  refuse,"  she 
said  to  herself. 

"  How  can  I  do  it  over  again  to-mor 
row  ?"  she  asked,  "  and  yet  I  can.  I  must 
go  again  to  my  teacher,  and  ask  him  to 
send  me  to  some  one  else." 

But  the  first  mail  in  the  morning 
brought  her  a  letter  from  Mr.  Mann,  stat 
ing  that  her  services  as  book-keeper  and 
corresponding  clerk  in  his  establishment 
would  be  accepted  on  her  own  terms. 
At  first  it  seemed  impossible  that  such 
success  could-  be  her  portion,  yet  she 
went  and  took  her  seat,  and  began  her 
duties  as  quietly  and  composedly  as  if 
she  had  been  doing  them  all  her  life,  and 
had  never  made  an  effort  to  secure  the 
power  to  do  them.  More  and  more  it 
became  a  strangely  isolated  life  that  she 
lived,  alone  and  unknown  in  the  great 
city.  How  small  her  own  existence 
seemed  to  her,  how  feeble  a  ripple  in  the 
mighty  current  of  human  life  rushing 
around  her.  She  was  busy  all  day,  she 
was  tired  at  night,  and  for  this  very  rea 
son  probably  she  felt  the  more  keenly 
the  need  of  some  human  presence  which 
belonged  to  her. 

"I  am  one  of  a  great  multitude,"  she 
would  say,  as  she  looked  down  from  her 
high  watching  place,  some  starry  night, 
upon  the  innumerable  lights  of  the  city 
gleaming  far  beneath  her.  "  Only  one ! 
How  many  there  must  be  who  live  and 
work  as  I  do.  How  hard  and  long  life 
would  seem  to  go  and  come  all  through 
it  with  no  one  near  to  love.  Yet  this 
happens  to  many."  It  did  not  occur  to 
her  that  anything  different  could  ever 
happen  to  her.  It  is  so  natural  for  youth 
to  believe  that  it  is  done  with  life,  even 
before  it  has  fairly  begun  it. 


134 


EIKEKE: 


CHAPTER  XIII. 


THE  DE  PEYSTEBS. 


PEOPLE  who  imagine  that  all  the  aris 
tocracy  of  New  York  is  centered  in 
Fifth  Avenue  or  the  streets  which  border 
it,  have  a  very  superficial  knowledge  of 
the  real  life  of  the  metropolis.  Many  a 
sleepy  old  mansion  which  rarely  deigns 
to  open  its  securely  closed  eyes  of  win 
dows  upon  the  roaring  and  encroaching 
mart  below,  hides  within  its  excluding 
and  exclusive  shutters  the  best  blood  of 
the  ancient  Knickerbockers. 

Such  an  one  was  De  Peyster  House. 
It  stood  on  a  street  which  fashion  had 
long  since  forgotten.  All  people  who 
felt  that  their  position  in  the  first  society 
needed  visible  support  to  sustain  it,  had 
left  the  neighborhood  long  before.  But 
the  De  Peysters  could  afford  to  live 
"  down  town." 

DE  PEYSTER!  There  it  was  on  the  broad, 
bright  brass  door-plate.  The  name  was 
sufficient  unto  itself,  and  would  have 
been  if  it  had  glittered  out  from  among 
the  hovels  of  the  Five  Points.  But  as  it 
WAS  not,  it  only  sent  its  long  gleam 
athwart  the  sturdy  warehouses  which 
had  defiantly  run  up  beside  its  very 
door,  and  out  toward  the  little  triangular 
park  before  it  which,  being  owned  by 
the  De  Peysters,  who  were  in  no  need 
of  money,  and  who  withal  were  very  fond 
of  their  own  way,  and  proud  to  show 
that  they  could  afford  to  take  it,  still 
remained  a  breathing-spot  for  men  and 
women,  animals,  birds,  and  little  children, 
amid  all  the  thunder  of  traffic,  in  spite  of 
the  enormous  sums  offered  by  corpora 
tions  to  buy  it. 

"  Just  like  those  old  Knickerbockers — 
no  progress,  no  public  spirit  in  them ; 
they  want  everything  precisely  as  their 
Dutch  great-grandfathers  had  it,"  said 
young  New  York  in  a  pet,  because  he 
could  not  turn  De  Peyster  Park  into 
a  warehouse  for  hams.  Thus  the  birds 


sang  and  the  lilacs  blossomed,  and  the 
little  old  fountain  spurted  clear  water 
out  of  its  broken-nosed  Neptune,  and 
the  little  children  came  with  their  nurses, 
and  the  ragged  children  who  had  no 
shoes,  and  the  old  men  and  the  old 
women  from  the  tenement-houses,  who 
would  never  have  seen  the  bright  face  of 
Nature  else,  and  all  were  happy  in  the 
little  park  while  great  New  York  rushed 
and  roared  around  it,  pausing  only  long 
enough  some  day  to  wonder  and  lament 
that  such  a  building-spot,  "  worth  a  for 
tune,"  should  be  wasted.  Occasionally, 
in  the  fragrant  spring  mornings,  and  in 
the  late  October,  when  the  bright,  brief 
autumnal  day  was  taking  its  tender 
farewell  of  the  world,  the  sleepy  old 
mansion  would  open  wide  its  eyes, 
which  were  shut  often  and  long,  and 
then  in  its  great  drawing-room  win 
dows  might  sometimes  be  seen  a  fair 
and  wistful  face  looking  out  toward  the 
old  trees  across  the  street,  and  some 
times  a  strong  man's  face  would  be 
turned  in  the  same  direction.  But  there 
were  months  and  months  that  this  never 
happened,  and  on  its  most  gala  days  the 
old  mansion  had  a  rather  shut-up  and 
solitary  look.  No  glad  children  ever 
ran  up  and  down  its  high  steps,  no 
baby's  face  ever  shone  out  of  its  win 
dows.  All  its  visitors  came  and  went  in 
stately  carriages.  Its  door-knob  was 
very  bright,  its  shutters  very  white,  its 
brick  walls  very  venerable,  with  gray 
tints  and  tiny  tufts  of  moss  which  out 
lined  the  carving  on  its  quaintly-wrought 
pilasters  and  cornices. 

De  Peyster  house  was  one  of  the 
comparatively  few  houses  left  which 
boast  a  proud  historic  record  in  this  city 
of  swift  transition  and  eager  change. 
When  it  was  built  in  the  seventeenth 
century,  orchards  blossomed  about  it, 
and  meadows,  musical  with  tinkling 


A  WOMAN'S  EIGHT. 


135 


cow-bells,  ran  down  almost  to  the  Bat 
tery,  where  the  great  ships  come  in. 
Where  the  cows  grazed  and  apples 
ripened,  great  warehouses  now  soared 
high  in  air,  and  pushed  and  almost  stifled 
each  other  for  room.  The  great  garden 
of  the  De  Peysters,  the  pride  of  New 
Amsterdam  in  colonial  days,  was  now 
cut  into  lots,  buried  in  mouldy  vaults, 
and  covered  with  dingy  houses  into 
which  the  sunshine  never  came.  Nearly 
all  the  lands  lying  between  their  house 
and  the  bay  had  once  been  owned  by 
the  De  Peysters.  It  was  a  De  Peyster 
who  had  given  the  city  the  site  of  the 
old  Fly  Market,  and  the  site  of  old 
Federal  Hall,  in  which  Washington  was 
inaugurated  first  President  of  the  United 
States,  and  on  which  now  stands  the 
vast  marble  pile  of  the  New  York  Cus 
tom  House.  It  was  a  De  Peyster  who 
gave  the  bell  into  whose  metal  the  citi 
zens  of  old  Amsterdam  cast  their  silver 
coins,  which  swung  so  long  in  the  quaint 
belfry  of  the  old  Middle  Church  on 
Nassau  street,  and  which  by  Lafayette 
Square  still  sends  out  the  silvery  chimes 
which  have  floated  above  the  city  for 
more  than  one  hundred  and  fifty  years. 

Year  by  year,  generation  by  genera 
tion  the  old  house  had  watched  its  lands 
vanish,  its  race  depart,  to  sleep  in  the 
deep  vault  under  the  pavement  of  Trini 
ty  ;  had  watched  the  sure  advance  of 
commerce,  its  resistless  foe ;  but  while 
the  very  face  of  the  earth  changed,  it 
changed  not — it  seemed  to  frown  in  the 
face  of  time,  and  to  defy  mutation.  It 
could  afford  to  smile  on  the  narrow, 
shall"  v,  toppling  piles  which  to-day  are 
called  "  palatial,"  this  kingly  old  house, 
that  tarried  to  tell  what  comfort  and 
splendor  were  in  colonial  times.  Here 
was  its  broad  double  door,  and  above  it 
the  great  arched  window  and  hanging 
balcony,  from  which  on  many  a  field- 
day  the  troops  of  New  Amsterdam  had 
been  reviewed  by  colonial  Governors, 
and  from  which,  long  after,  Governor 
George  Clinton  and  General  Washington 
reviewed  the  Revolutionary  Army  in 
New  York.  Within,  its  great  central  hall, 
its  tapestry  room,  its  blue  room,  its 
wainscoted  rooms  remained  untouched 


of  time  or  progress.  Hsre  in  its  grand 
drawing-room  were  the  costly  furniture 
and  works  of  art  brought  to  New  Am 
sterdam  by  Johanes  de  Peyster  early  in 
the  seventeenth  century.  Here  in  the 
library  was  the  portrait  of  the  grand 
father  of  this  Johanes  de  Peyster,  in 
flowing  wig  and  robe,  and  ruffles,  a 
nobleman  of  France,  who  fled  to  Holland 
with  his  family  at  the  massacre  of  St. 
Bartholomew.  Here  hung  the  portraits 
of  his  wife  and  child,  in  courtly  robes, 
and  that  of  Colonel  Arent  Schuyler  De 
Peyster,  famed  as  soldier,  diplomat,  and 
poet,  with  pictures  of  every  generation 
of  the  family  down  to  the  fair  and  state 
ly  De  Peysters  of  to-day.  Its  spacious 
wainscoted  dining-room  was  still  redo 
lent  of  colonial  cheer  ;  its  side-board 
still  resplendent  with  historic  silver,  the 
massive  plate  brought  by  Johanes  De 
Peyster  from  Holland,  the  embossed 
punch-bowl  and  tankards — memorials  of 
the  family  in  France  and  their  grandeui 
in  early  centuries.  Here  was  a  shrine 
sacred  to  the  past  in  the  very  heart  of 
the  present.  What  did  the  old  house,  so 
full  of  proud  and  tender  memories,  care 
for  roaring  trade  or  young  New  York  ! 
Yet  all  left  of  its  race  to  inhabit  it,  and 
to  hold  guard  over  its  treasures,  surely 
belonged  to  young  New  York,  were  of 
it.  and  yet  not  of  it — a  brother  and  sister, 
Cornelia-  and  Pierre  De  Peyster.  It  is 
right  here  to  call  her  Cornelia  De  Peys 
ter,  she  was  so  truly  a  daughter  of  her 
race,  never  having  merged  one  of  its 
characteristics  in  the  nominal  marriage 
which  had  given  her  in  the  world  anoth 
er  name.  Mrs.  Stuyvesant  was  the 
name  by  which  the  world  now  called 
her;  she  had  borne  it  for  years,  and  yet 
had  never  become  used  to  it ;  even  now 
she  would  instinctively  shudder  when 
she  heard  herself  suddenly  called  by  it. 
Hers  had  been  one  of  those  ill-fated 
marriages  out  of  which  so  much  of  the 
misery  and  sin  of  this  world  are  born. 
To  be  sure,  it  did  not  last  very  long. 
She  had  not  passed  youth,  and  was 
already  free ;  and  yet  no  less  the  blight 
that  other  life  had  cast  on  hers  could  nev 
er  be  effaced.  And  it  was  not  wholly 
Cornelia's  fault  that  she  entered  into  this 


13G 


EIRENE : 


marriage ;  her  brother  knew  that.  Next 
to  the  rich  and  dissolute  bachelor  who 
coveted  this  lily  of  the  De  Peyster  house 
and  bore  her  away  at  last,  it  was  unwit 
tingly,  the  fault  of  her  only  brother,  who, 
though  he  never  sought  it,  acquiesced 
in  his  sister's  sacrifice.  At  least  he  was 
negatively  to  blame,  for,  had  he  opposed 
it,  it  could  scarcely  have  happened. 
And  yet  it  was  hardly  his  fault ;  it  was 
the  fault  of  his  education,  and  the 
world's  accepted  standard  of  a  woman's 
only  destiny.  He  was  a  very  young 
man  then,  and  had  just  arrived  in 
Europe  to  travel,  and  to  complete  his 
university  studies.  Cornelia  accompa 
nied  him,  for  the  brother  and  sister  were 
very  near  in  heart  to  each  other.  She 
visited  the  family  estates  at  Rouen  and 
the  ancient  family  fief  near  Antwerp ; 
she  sought  to  draw  near  in  spirit  to  her 
relatives  there,  and  found  to  her  aston 
ishment  that  she  was  an  American,  and 
that  more  than  the  ocean  divided  her  in 
sympathy  from  her  European  kindred. 
She  was  a  star  at  court,  and  shone  in 
the  society  of  capitals.  She  studied  art 
in  famous  galleries,  and  copied  pictures 
in  secret.  But  wherever  she  went  one 
shadow  followed  her,  and  Philip  Stuy- 
vesant  was  by  her  side.  He  was  twice 
her  age,  had  lived  one — aye,  many  lives, 
not  one  guiltless  since  that  of  infancy ; 
now  he  wanted  to  begin  another,  with 
this  lily  maid  as  its  flower. 

"You  are  a  woman,  you  know ;  so  there 
seems  to  be  nothing  for  you  at  last  but 
marriage."  said  Pierre,  when  Cornelia 
came  to  him  for  advice — to  this  brother 
who  had  reached  the  astute  age  of  twen 
ty-one.  "  Perhaps  you  care  as  much  for 
Phil,  as  you  ever  will  for  any  one.  You 
say  that  he  fascinates  you,  and  the  fam 
ilies,  you  know,  have  intermarried  for 
generations.  Phil,  seems  desperate. 
May  be  it  is  as  well  to  succumb  to  des 
tiny  first  as  last,  as  it's  marriage  or  no 
thing  for  a  woman ;  though  I'm  sure  I 
don't  want  to  lose  you;  and  if  Phil,  would 
get  out  of  the  way,  we  might  have  a  good 
time  for  several  years." 

It  is  but  just  to  Pierre  to  say  that  he 
was  unacquainted  with  the  secret  wick 
edness  of  Philip  Stuyvesant's  life;  had 


he  known  of  it,  it  would  have  aroused 
him  to  rage  that  such  a  man  should  dare 
to  seek  the  hand  of  his  only  sister,  and 
would  have  modified  his  ideas  forever  of 
marriage  as  a  woman's  only, destiny.  As 
it  was,  we  shall  see  that  he  lived  to  regret 
these  words — more,  perhaps,  than  any 
that  he  ever  uttered. 

Cornelia  De  Peyster  married  Philip 
Stuyvesant,  and  only  herself  and  God 
ever  knew  all  the  disenchantment  and 
disgust  and  weariness  of  life  which  that 
marriage  brought  her.  The  men  of  the 
De  Peyster  house  had  their  faults,  but 
they  were  the  faults  of  dominant  will  and 
over-strong  prejudices,  not  of  dishonor. 
They  were  true  to  their  higher  selves, 
and  true  to  their  fellow-men  back  to  the 
days  when  they  were  driven  from  their 
native  seats,  for  conscience's  sake,  by 
the  persecutions  of  Charles  IX.  Cornelia 
De  Peyster  knew  manhood  only  through 
her  brother  and  father;  hers  was  the 
highest  idea  of  manly  rectitude  and  of 
manly  honor.  With  a  soul  in  its  inmost 
self  pure  as  the  snow,  no  words  can  tell 
what  it  was  to  her  to  find  that  the  man 
whom  she  believed  she  could  have  loved 
— the  man  to  whom  she  was  already  mar 
ried,  was  the  slave  of  low  vices ;  to  be 
compelled  to  read  the  record  of  his 
shameful  life  ;  to  know,  now  that  he  had 
won  her,  that  she  was  no  more  to  him 
than  a  hundred  others.  Bitter  knowl 
edge  to  any  woman,  it  was  doubly  bitter 
to  her,  so  pure  and  proud,  so  young  and 
disappointed.  The  years  spent  with  him 
seemed  to  cast  an  irremediable  blight 
over  her  nature  It  was  not  her  visible 
life  so  much,  it  was  her  soul  whose  bloom 
was  destroyed.  In  five  years  he  died, 
and  the  youthful  widow  came  back  to 
the  house  in  which  she  and  her  father 
and  his  father  before  were  born,  and  for 
years  the  brother  and  sister  had  lived 
together  and  called  De  Peyster  house 
home. 

Here  Cornelia  De  Peyster,  endowed 
with  the  finest  natural  gifts,  drifted  into 
a  perfectly  objectless  existence.  Any 
thing  more  idle  or  aimless  than  her  days, 
it  would  be  difficult  to  imagine.  Yet  it 
was  impossible  to  come  in  contact  with 
her  and  not  feel  that  she  was  born  for 


A  WOMAN'S  RIGHT. 


137 


better  things  than  the  inanities  which 
filled  her  life.  We  see  women  in  plenty 
driving  about,  leaving  bits  of  pasteboard 
at  the  doors  of  houses,  spending  half  of 
their  days  in  dry-goods  shops,  and  the 
other  half  in  vapid  amusements,  and  it 
never  occurs  to  us  that  they  have  pow 
ers  adapted  to  higher  occupation,  or  were 
born  to  a  better  destiny. 

But  Cornelia  De  Peyster  was  not  one 
of  these.  You  felt  constantly  that  she 
played  with  life;  that  she  amused  her 
self  with  toys  upon  its  surface,  while 
rich  powers  were  lying  in  her  soul  un 
occupied,  and  noble  tasks  in  her  life  un- 
attempted.  It  was  often  from  sheer 
indolence  that  she  left  the  latter  un 
touched,  and  from  fear  that  she  shrank 
back  from  the  possibilities  which  she 
felt  in  her  own  being.  "  It  is  all  van 
ity,"  she  would  murmur  to  herself,  "this 
struggle  for  a  career,  or  for  anything  in 
this  world,  making  life  an  endless  en 
deavor.  People  can  never  reach  their 
ideal;  and  if  they  could,  by  that  time 
death  would  take  them.  Life  is  so  short, 
it  does  not  give  one  half  time  enough  to 
enjoy ;  there  is  no  time  left  for  work. 
But  what  delight  life  withholds  from  me ! 
My  God!  how  I  could  love  and  live! 
But  it  is  too  late!  Eulalie,  come  and 
dress  my  hair ;  make  me  as  handsome  as 
you  can.  My  beauty,  at  least,  must  not 
be  a  failure."  But  the  defrauded  soul 
set  its  own  seal  upon  those  exquisite 
features,  and  told  of  its  cheated  life  in 
every  expression  of  the  changeful  face. 
Every  glance  of  those  eyes,  ever}'  move 
ment  of  that  graceful  form  suggested  the 
Might  Have  Been  I 

When  the  fine  eye-brows  arched,  when 
the  soft  fire  in  the  oriental  eyes  burned 
in  steadfast  flame — as  the  slight  figure 
grew  erect  and  stately,  every  curve 
swelling  with  unconquerable  pride,  yet 
alluring  with  irresistible  grace,  you  said, 
"  This  woman  is  Zenobia ;  she  was  born 
an  empress." 

When  these  same  eyes  melted  in  ten 
der  ruth,  growing  dim  with  tears  of 
loving  compassion  as  she  listened  to 
some  story  of  human  sorrow,  and  listen 
ed  only  to  relieve,  you  said  she  was  born 
a  Sister  of  Mercy,  and  no  other. 


There  were  days  when  she  ordered 
the  coachman  to  drive  to  the  outskirts 
of  the  city,  to  the  new  streets  struggling 
through  masses  of  rock  on  which  were 
perched  the  shanties  of  Irish  laborers, 
where  children  and  goats  scrambled  and 
played  together.  The  scanty  grass  creep 
ing  over  the  boulders  was  a  relief  to  her 
eyes  after  the  desert  of  stone  and  brick 
through  which  she  had  passed ;  yet  it  was 
not  for  this  meagre  beauty  which  Nature 
reluctantly  filtered  through  seams  of 
granite  that  she  came  in  search.  It  was 
the  half-barbarous  yet  often  beautiful 
children  that  she  came  to  see.  They  all 
knew  the  lovely  lady,  and  would  come 
scrambling  down  the  rocks  in  flocks,  sur 
rounding  the  carriage  with  laughter  and 
shouts,  as  they  stretched  out  ragged 
aprons  and  dirty  hands  for  the  painted 
primers  and  sugar  bon-bons,  which 
never  failed  to  come  from  the  coach  in 
showers.  To  have  watched  her  face  at 
this  time,  radiant  with  happiness  as  she 
scattered  her  treasures  among  the  ex 
cited  children,  or  suffused  with  pity  as 
she  bent  over  one  looking  sad,  or  sick  or 
neglected  among  the  rest,  you  would 
say,  "  What  a  Madonna  face !  This  wo 
man  was  made  for  a  mother,  to  find  life 
^nd  love,  and  a  career  in  her  children." 
Thus  Cornelia,  looking  at  the  ragged, 
hard-worked  mother  in  her  cabin  door, 
surrounded  by  her  barefooted  brood, 
would  sigh,  and  say  to  herself  as  she 
turned  away,  "She  is  happier  than  I. 
Her  life  is  hard,  and  lacks  many  com 
forts.  Her  husband  is  ignorant,  and 
perhaps  sometimes  brutal ;  yet  he  loves 
her  in  his  rough  way,  and  she  is  happy 
and  satisfied  in  him  and  her  children. 
She  has  more  to  live  for  than  I  have,  her 
life  is  more  natural  and  complete  than 
mine."  Of  course  Cornelia  Stuyvesant 
was  the  last  woman  in  the  world  who 
would  have  exchanged  places  with  the 
Irish  mother;  yet  she  was  sincere  in 
recognizing  a  charm  in  the  other's  life 
that  her  own  had  not,  and  while  she 
pitied  her  poverty  she  envied  her  happi 
ness. 

Life  had  already  taken  on  a  very  dif 
ferent  aspect  to  Pierre  De  Peyster  from 
that  which  it  wore  when  he  advised  his 


138 


EIRENE : 


sister  to  marry  Philip  Stuyvesant.  It  is 
the  ordinary  opinion  that  it  is  woman 
alone  who  feels  her  personal  life  to  be 
incomplete  until  she  finds  her  mate. 
This  is  probably  true  in  average  life. 
Yet  there  are  many  men,  and  they  men 
of  the  highest  type,  who  cannot  remem 
ber  the  time  when  they  did  not  see,  if 
ever  so  dimly,  in  their  possible  future,  the 
distant  vision  of  their  fairer  self.  In  the 
proportion  that  they  feel  their  own 
nature  to  be  incomplete,  do  they  sigh  for 
its  counterpart. 

This  had  all  been  true  of  Pierre  De 
Peyster,  yet  nobody  had  guessed  it. 
He  was  a  proud  man,  whose  pride  was 
all  embodied  in  what  he  hid,  not  in  what 
he  revealed.  Not  a  night  of  his  life  but, 
as  he  sat  brooding  in  his  solitary  room, 
he  thanked  Fate  and  his  own  organ  of 
secretiveness,  that  nobody  on  earth  knew 
his  heart — his  real  heart — that  deep,  ten 
der  soul  of  himself  which  could  love  and 
suffer  so  much.  He  felt  a  silent  satisfac 
tion  in  the  personal  reputation  that  he 
had  won  in  his  own  exclusive  circle  of 
being  a  woman-hater.  Very  likely  he 
felt  a  little  unconscious  vanity  in  the 
satisfaction  that  this  very  reputation 
made  him  a  more  interesting  personage 
in  the  estimation  of  such  women  as  he 
was  most  desirous  to  please.  Still  the 
chief  satisfaction  arose  from  the  fact 
that  this  seemed  to  release  him  from  all 
obligation  to  pay  special  attention  to 
any  lady.  No  one  expected  it — he  was 
a  woman-hater — that  was  reason  enough 
why  he  should  not  put  himself  out  for 
any  lady.  He  rarely  did.  His  private 
personal  opinion  was,  that  in  comparison 
with  his  standard  of  what  a  woman 
should  be,  nearly  all  the  women  whom 
he  knew  were  little  more  than  idiots. 
He  was  intellectually  arrogant,  and  it 
did  not  seem  to  him  to  be  worth  the 
while  to  trouble  himself  in  any  way  for 
creatures  of  such  petty  lives  and  feeble 
comprehension.  They  did  not  interest 
him,  they  did  not  even  amuse  him. 
Every  one  disappointed  him  if  in  a 
favorable  moment  he  was  aroused  to  ex 
pect  anything  more  than  a  surface  satis 
faction,  a  passing  pleasure  of  sight  or 
sound.  Nor  was  this  strange  with  a 


man  of  deep  nature,  moving  in  merely 
fashionable  society.  Nearly  all  the  wo 
men  whom  he  met  lived  artificial  lives. 
They  toiled  not,  they  thought  not.  Others 
toiled  and  thought  for  them.  With  them 
existence  was  a  brilliant,  yet  dreary 
round  of  mere  amusement,  which  in  its 
sum  was  toil,  and  which  left  them  at 
last  worn,  haggard,  and  inane.  The 
only  woman  he  knew  whom  he  loved 
was  his  sister  Cornelia.  He  watched 
her  paint,  he  listened  to  her  sing,  he  read 
his  favorite  books  with  her,  conversed 
with  her  on  many  topics ;  but  there  was 
one  he  rarely  mentioned.  Neverthele'ss, 
he  said  to  her  one  day :  "  Corna,  I 
wish  you  were  a  man,  or  not  my  sister ; 
then  as  a  companion  I  believe  you  would 
be  more  to  me  than  any  other  person 
that  I  ever  met." 

"What  can  you  want  more  than  a 
sister  ?  "  she  asked  archly. 

"What  could  you  want  more  than  a 
brother  ?  "  he  asked  solemnly. 

"Nothing." 

"  There's  your  woman's  affectation. 
You  of  all  women  can  afford  to  tell  the 
truth.  You  are  the  truest  woman  I  know, 
yet  even  you  serenely  tell  me  a  fib.  You 
know  as  well  as  I  do,  that  there  is  some 
thing  more — a  satisfaction  in  sympathy, 
through  unlikeness,  that  can  only  be 
found  in  one  not  of  our  own  blood  or 
sex." 

"  Yes,  I  suppose  that  is  true.  Why 
don't  you  marry,  Pierre?  " 

"  More  affectation.  Whom  am  I  to 
marry,  for  heaven's  sake  ?  Gimp  and 
buttons,  fuss  and  feathers,  pearl  powder 
and  crimpers?  torpid  livers  and  turgid 
brains?  or  woman's  rights  and  public  lec 
tures?  Not  one  of  them,  thank  you.;' 

"  Well,  I  know  lovely  girls,  and  so  do 
you,  who  have  brains  enough,  but  who 
don't  bother  their  heads  about  woman's 
rights,  and  who  have  nothing  the  mat 
ter  with  their  livers." 

"Do  you?  Well,  they  don't  interest 
me.  I  have  never  seen  a  woman  yet 
whom  I  would  have  been  willing  to 
marry,  and  I  don't  believe  that  I  ever 
shall." 

But  the  more  Pierre  De  Peyster  ap 
peared  a  confirmed  old  bachelor  even  to 


A  WOMAN'S  RIGHT. 


139 


hi?  sister,  the  more  he  retired  into  him 
self,  and  into  his  room,  and  pictured  the 
impossible  woman  whom  he  had  never 
seen,  and  never  was  to  see.  What  a 
dream  of  beauty  she  was!  She  was  just 
as  faultlessly  lovely  in  cruel  day  cross- 
lights  as  in  the  evening  glow.  What  an 
intellect  she  had ;  but  she  was  to  use  it 
solely  in  appreciating  her  husband  !  She 
was  full  of  spirit,  yet  she  had  no  will ; 
her  will  was  to  be  her  husband's,  and  her 
husband  was  Pierre  De  Peyster.  She 
had  exquisite  sensibility,  yet  she  was 
never  to  scream,  or  be  afraid  of  things, 
after  the  fashion  of  modern  maidens. 
She  was  intellectually  the  peer  of  any 
man,  without  a  man's  ambition  ;  she  was 
the  most  exquisitely  feminine  of  women, 
without  one  feminine  weakness  ;  in  fine, 
she  was  one  of  the  loveliest  and  most 
preposterous  dream- women  that  ever 
inhabited  a  man's  brain.  The  more 
Pierre  thought  about  her,  the  more  per 
fect  and  impossible  she  became,  the  less 
likeness  he  found  to  her  among  the  wo 
men  of  his  acquaintance,  and  the  more 
persistently  he  retired  to  his  apartment, 
where,  gazing  up  through  a  cloud  of 
smoke,  he  spent  his  late  hours  building 
dream-palaces  for  her.  Thus  the  ladies 
of  his  "set"  said:  "Pierre  De  Peyster 
gets  to  be  more  of  an  old  bachelor  every 
year;  and  he  never  was  a  beau."  Yet 
they  troubled  their  heads  very  little  about 
him.  He  was  rich  and  manly,  but  then 
they  knew  many  other  men  who  were 
both,  and  yet  took  much  pains  to  please 
and  woo  them,  and  this  was  what  Pierre 
De  Peyster  never  did.  The  rising  pro 
fessional  men  of  his  acquaintance  said: 
"  What  a  pity  Pierre  De  Peyster  isn't 
poor!  If  he  were,  he  could  make  his 
mark  in  the  world."  And  the  driving 
business  men  who  knew  him  would  say  : 
"There's  De  Peyster!  If  it  wasn't  for 
that  old  Knickerbocker  blood,  he'd 
amount  to  something;  with  his  fortune, 
he  might  make  millions  more  out  of  it  if 
he  only  had  a  little  more  energy,  and 
wanted  to."  But  he  did  not  seem  to  want 
to  do  so.  "  I  can  shut  my  eyes  and 
grow  as  rich  as  a  man  ought  to  be,"  he 
would  say.  Yet,  in  a  quiet  way,  he 
managed  his  sister's  fortune  and  his  own 


with  energy  and  wisdom,  gathering  in 
rents  and  dividends,  looking  after  bonds 
and  stocks,  as  if  to  do  so  was  the  su 
preme  object  of  his  existence.  But  often 
nothing  but  his  pride,  and  sense  of  honor, 
for  he  regarded  his  inheritance  as  a  trust, 
could  have  kept  him  so  busy.  He  liked  his 
ease,  and  in  all  that  he  did  he  felt  vague 
ly,  hour  by  hour,  that  in  some  way  he  had 
missed  the  highest  and  finest  incentive 
of  life.  In  his  profession  he  was  a  skil 
ful  surgeon,  but  he  had  practised  very 
little  of  late ;  it  was  too  much  trouble. 
"  What's  the  use  t "  he  said  of  that,  as  he 
did  of  amassing  more  wealth.  He  was 
not  a  man  to  put  himself  out  much  in 
the  way  of  exertion,  unless  moved  by  a 
commanding  motive.  This  had  never 
come  to  him.  A  pure  love  of  science 
had  impelled  him  to  walk  the  hospitals 
of  Paris  and  London,  and  to  avail  himself 
of  the  instruction  of  the  best  American 
and  European  schools ;  but  having  be 
come  technically  a  master  in  his  profes 
sion,  he  shrank  from  its  practice.  He 
saw  no  occasion  for  it,  he  said,  and  never 
dreamed  that  his  occasion  had  not  come. 
All  around  him  he  saw  men  struggling 
after  opportunity,  and  he  said :  "  Poor 
devils !  Why  don't  they  see  that  nothing 
they  are  after  is  worth  the  ado  they 
make  about  it.  For  my  part,  I  don't 
think  that  it  pays  to  live.  It  is  altogether 
too  much  trouble."  I  am  afraid  that  it 
never  occurred  to  him  at  this  time  to  be 
especially  grateful  for  his  own  rich  en 
dowments  of  mind  or  fortune.  He  was 
born  a  De  Peyster,  and  could  not  realize 
that  if  he  had  been  born  John  Stokes,  a 
good  many  rounds  farther  down  the 
ladder  of  life,  he  might  have  tried  as 
hard  as  John  to  scramble  up  and  make 
a  stan  ding- place  for  himself  on  a  higher 
round.  One  thing  is  certain,  with  all  his 
knowledge  of  science  and  society,  at  this 
time  he  was  not  at  all  acquainted  with 
himself,  and  did  not  know  that  life  to  him, 
as  a  personal  experience,  was  but  a 
dawning  dream,  not  yet  a  reality. 

Cornelia  De  Peyster  went  to  church 
because  she  liked  it,  because  she  loved 
the  service  and  loved  the  old  church. 
Pierre  strayed  there  occasionally  from 
early  habit,  and  to  please  his  sister.  When 


140 


ElRENE : 


there  I  am  afraid  that  he  worshipped 
as  the  men  of  this  generation  chiefly 
worship,  enjoying  the  music,  wandering 
through  the  prayers,  listening  to  the 
sermon  very  little,  and  looking  about 
very  much.  Old  Trinity  had  always  a 
charm  for  his  eyes  and  heart  ever  since 
he  sat  in  that  same  square  pew  a  little 
boy  by  his  mother's  side,  and  watched 
the  tall  trees  in  the  church-yard  wave 
their  boughs  outside  and  lay  their  deli 
cate  tracing  in  waving  lines  of  shadow 
against  the  grand  window  of  stained 
glass.  It  seemed  so  unchanged  to  him 
one  October  Sabbath,  the  great  dim 
temple,  with  its  lofty  gothic  arch,  through 
whose  mullioned  windows  the  yellow 
light  flickered  down  upon  the  brown 
stone  pillars. 

Since  he  was  a  little  boy  Pierre 
thought  that  he  had  not  seen  the  old 
church  look  so  beautiful  as  it  did  this 
afternoon,  with  the  radiance  of  the  Oc 
tober  atmosphere  floating  through  the 
open  doors  and  pouring  through  the 
waving  boughs  of  the  trees  outside,  illu 
minating  the  deep  hues  of  the  glass  and 
hovering  above  the  congregation  in 
visible  glory.  In  a  sudden  apocalypse 
of  sunshine  the  gorgeous  Christ  on  the 
great  stained  window  seemed  to  stretch 
forth  his  hands  in  loving  benediction 
upon  the  worshippers.  Pierre's  eyes 
followed  the  sunshine  as  it  glinted  down 
ward  till  it  rested  on  the  head  of  a 
woman  in  the  aisle.  The  first  thing  he 
knew  he  was  wondering  why  his  eyes 
continued  to  rest  there  ;  why,  when  he 
withdrew  them,  that  they  wandered 
directly  back.  It  was  the  pure  woman 
liness  of  the  head  and  brow  that  attracted 
him,  for  surely  the  face  of  their  owner 
was  scarcely  you  n  jr.  He  looked  as  he 
had  often  looked  in  Rome  or  Venice  at 
some  rare  head  or  face  in  the  crowd — a 
peasant's,  or  a  beggar's,  perhaps,  it  mat 
tered  not  which  to  him,  for  he  was  a 
student  of  human  faces,  and  the  study 
afforded  him  equal  pleasure  in  every 
phase  and  condition  in  life.  But  now. 
as  his  eyes  went  persistently  back  to 
this  face  in  the  aisle,  they  discovered  at 
last  that  it  was  young,  although  its  first 
impression  was  not  that  of  youth.  At 


last  he  saw  that  it  was  youth,  under 
lying  and  struggling  through  an  expre$- 
sion  of  thought  and  care  and  weariness. 
The  history  of  a  long  life  seemed  stamped 
on  those  features,  and  to  look  forth  from 
those  eyes — those  eyesl  He  caught  their 
expression  as  the  girl  half  turned  toward 
him  to  escape  the  dazzling  radiance 
which  fell  on  her  face.  A  strange,  new 
thrill  went  through  his  heart,  and  even 
while  he  felt  it  he  questioned  what  it 
was.  And  who  was  she  !  More  plainly 
dressed  than  the  servant  by  her  side, 
had  she  been  attired  in  rags  he  must  yet 
have  recognized  her  as  a  lady — the  ex 
pression  of  refinement  and  culture  on 
the  face  could  not  be  mistaken,  the  very 
choice  of  her  colors  showed  it,  the  soft 
gray  dress  and  the  blue  ribbon  touching 
her  hair. 

The  longer  he  gazed,  the  more  this 
face  took  on  the  look  of  the  woman  of 
his  dreams,  and  yet  had  he  in  his  visions 
ever  seen  her — faded,  weary,  and  poor  ? 
Never.  "  She  had  fed  on  the  roses,  and 
lain  in  the  lilies  of  life."  And  whatever 
else  were  true  of  this  woman  'before 
him,  life  had  come  to  her  in  no  gentle 
guise  ;  it  had  strained  her  faculties, 
it  had  smitten  her  heart;  he  who  had 
read  many  a  life-story  on  many  a  human 
face  knew  this  as  he  gazed  upon  this 
one,  and  the  knowledge  seemed  to  draw 
him  toward  her  in  a  tender,  an  almost 
divine  pity,  such  as  he  had  never  felt 
before. 

The  sweet  voices  of  the  altar-boys  float 
ed  in  from  afar,  drawing  nearer,  nearer, 
till  the  chancel  was  filled  with  the  little 
white-robed  choristers;  the  organ  an 
them  flooded  the  arches;  the  great  con 
gregation  rose,  kneeled,  and  responded ; 
the  October  atmosphere  still  floating  in 
baptized  them  anew  with  its  golden 
glory ;  but  through  all,  Pierre  De  Peyster 
saw  but  a  single  face,  thought  of  but  one 
mortal.  She,  alone  with  her  own  spirit, 
sitting  on  the  stranger's  seat  in  the  aisle, 
saw  no  one.  The  music,  the  prayer,  the 
glory  lifted  her  out  of  her  daily  condition 
into  the  holy  awe  of  God's  temple,  and 
she  worshipped.  Loss,  regret,  weariness 
were  nothing  to  her  now ;  she  lifted  her 
face  into  the  radiance  which  fell  from  the 


A  WOMAN'S  RIGHT. 


141 


pictured  image  of  her  Lord,  and  wor 
shipped. 

Pierre  De  Peyster,  half  an  hour  later, 
entering  his  carriage,  saw  a  slender  figure 
disappear  in  the  crowd  moving  up  Broad 
way,  and  as  it  vanished  he  sighed. 

The  superlative  loveliness  of  the  Sab 
bath  day  had  allured  Eirene  on  and  on 
till  she  stood  at  the  gate  of  Trinity. 
When  she  came  it  was  not  time  for  even 
ing  service  and  she  wandered  into  the  an 
cient  grave-yard.  How  eloquent  it  seem 
ed  to  her,  this  spot  shadowed  by  trees, 
lined  with  turf,  bordered  with  innocent 
flowers — wherein  the  forefathers  of  the 
metropolis  slept  undisturbed  by  the  tu 
mult  of  the  encroaching  streets,  by  the 
troubled  splendor  of  a  civilization  of  which 
they  never  dreamed.  With  the  deepest 
interest  she  read  the  half-effaced  names 


on  the  old  brown  head-stones  and  moul 
dy  vaults.  Mere  names  had  always  had 
a  singular  power  to  attract  or  repel  her, 
and  as  she  read  them  over,  she  wonder 
ed  that  she  liked  so  many  of  the  old  his 
toric  names  of  New  York.  "  Cortlandt," 
"  Stuyvesandt,"  "  Beekman,"  "  De  Lan- 
cey,"  "  Schuyler,"  "Bayard,"  she  liked 
them  all.  And  here  was  the  name  ot 
De  Peyster — she  read  it  on  the  face  of  the 
ancient  vault  of  the  family  ;  "  Abraham 
De  Peyster,"  "Katherina  De  Peyster," 
"Cornelia  De  Peyster,"  "Pierre  Guil- 
laume  De  Peyster,"  and  many  more. 
"  I  like  this  name  better  than  any  other," 
she  said  to  herself.  Thus  with  the  name 
of  De  Peyster  in  her  mind,  she  had  en 
tered  Trinity  Church  and  sat  down  in  its 
aisle. 


142 


EIRENK : 


CHAPTER  XIV. 


WHAT  a  change  had  come  over  Hill 
top.  From  the  quietest  of  ancient  ham 
lets,  in  a  single  year  it  was  transformed 
into  a  fashionable  summer  resort.  For 
hundreds  of  years  a  mineral  spring  had 
bubbled  out  of  a  rock  on  its  highest 
pinnacle.  The  old  people  of  the  neighbor 
hood  for  many  generations  had  believed 
that  these  waters  were  full  of  health  and 
healing.  When  their  blood  was  out  of 
order,  when  they  had  the  "  dyspepsy,"  or 
"rhumatiz,"  a  wagon  and  a  barrel  were 
dispatched  to  "  The  Spring."  The  min 
eral  water  once  deposited  in  the  coolest 
spot  in  the  cellar,  the  invalid  drank  as 
siduously  every  day,  till  new  life  and 
strength  came  back  with  the  new  iron 
in  the  bloo'd.  Next  to  the  Lord,  the 
people  of  Hilltop  believed  in  their  spring. 
They  would  say,  "  It's  all  on  account  of 
the  spring  that  Grandpy  Smoot  has  lived 
to  be  ninety,  and  no  doctor  never  could 
get  a  livin'  here." 

There  came  a  time  in  the  cycles  of 
God  when  the  spring  was  not  to  renew 
the  life  of  the  people  of  Hilltop  only, 
but  to  pour  forth  health  for  many  people 
out  in  the  wide  world  as  well.  It  hap 
pened  in  this  wise.  Amzi  Smoot,  who 
was  employed  in  a  large  hotel  in  Boston, 
one  dog-day  morning  was  commiserating 
a  fellow-clerk  on  his  sickly  appearance. 
"I  say,  Snipe,"  he  said,  "if  you'd  only 
go  up  to  our  house  and  drink  of  our 
spring  for  a  while,  you  won't  look  so 
pale  and  pimpin'." 

Mr.  Sharpe,  the  proprietor,  who  was 
sitting  near  at  a  high  desk,  said  nothing, 
but  listened  to  this  remark  and  to  the 
conversation  which  came  after  with  the 
ears  of  a  speculator  and  a  philosopher. 

The  next  Saturday  Snipe  went  to  Hill 
top  with  Amzi.  What  with  the  medici 
nal  waters  of  the  spring,  and  the  fasci 
nating  presence  of  Miss  Nancy,  both 


liver  and  heart  suddenly  became  so  ac 
tive,  that  the  world,  from  being  jaundiced, 
all  at  once  became  a  very  beautiful 
world  indeed,  and  Hilltop  was  its  Para 
dise. 

The  Saturday  following  Mr.  Sharpe 
said  carelessly  to  Amzi,  "What  was 
that  you  were  saying  the  other  day 
about  a  spring  on  your  father's  farm? 
Snipe  says  the  water  is  doing  him  any 
amount  of  good.  I  have  a  mind  to  try 
it  myself;  not  out  of  his  bottle,  but  to  go 
up  with  you  and  spend  Sunday,  taste 
the  spring,  and  get  a  sniff  of  the  moun 
tain  air — that  is  if  you've  no  objection, 
Amzi."  Objection !  Amzi  never  felt  so 
honored  in  all  his  life.  I  dare  say  that 
it  was  the  first  and  last  time  that  the 
rich  proprietor  ever  went  on  a  social 
visit  to  one  of  his  clerk's.  Amzi  drove 
him  all  about  in  the  family  buggy.  Mr. 
Sharpe's  keen  eyes  saw  many  things,  and 
his  equally  keen  mind  came  to  many 
significant  conclusions. 

He  saw  that  the  remarkably  wild,  ro 
mantic  beauty  of  Hilltop  was  still  near 
the  railroad  and  accessible  to  the  great 
cities.  He  noted  the  pure,  invigorating 
quality  of  the  atmosphere.  He  tasted 
the  waters  of  the  spring,  and  if  he  had 
had  no  faith  in  their  medicinal  properties, 
he  could  still  see  that  their  surroundings 
would  be  most  attractive  to  pleasure 
seekers.  He  was  sagacious  enough  to 
conclude  that  here  was  a  chance  for 
a  profitable  investment,  and  he  made  it. 
The  first  result  of  his  Sunday's  seeing 
and  planning  made  Farmer  Smoot,  by 
the  sale  of  the  spring-portion  of  his 
farm,  the  richest  man  on  Hilltop.  The 
second  result  was  a  host  of  mechanics, 
and  the  strange  sights  and  sounds  of 
building  in  the  widely  scattered  and 
quiet  town.  The  third  result  was  visible, 
at  the  beginning  of  the  next  summer,  in 
the  form  of  an  elegant  and  spacious 


A  WOMAN'S  RIGHT. 


143 


hotel,  with  wide  verandahs  and  crowning 
cupola  surmounted  by  a  floating  flag. 
Blackberry  bushes,  mulleins,  and  dog- 
daisies  no  longer  ran  rampant  on  Pinna 
cle  Hill.  They  had  been  massacred  to 
make  place  for  velvet  turf,  broad  flower- 
bordered  avenues,  rustic  seats  and  ar 
bors. 

Mr.  Sharpe,  with  a  taste  remarkable 
in  one  of  his  class,  instead  of  a  heathen 
pagoda,  built  a  quaint  round  pavilion 
over  the  ancient  spring.  Thus,  while 
there  were  seats,  shadow,  and  quiet  for 
those  who  came  to  its  side,  its  natural 
beauty  remained  undisturbed,  its  waters 
still  bubbled  up  through  mossy  stones, 
and  trickled  through  the  fringing  ferns 
as  of  old.  The  fourth  result  of  Mr. 
Sharpe's  visit  changed  Hilltop  from  the 
gtillest  of  secluded  towns  into  a  water 
ing-place  of  fashion. 

Pinnacle  House,  its  glistening  cupola 
and  flying  flag  on  its  lofty  elevation, 
visible  I'or  miles  around,  was  alike  the 
pride  and  wonder  of  the  natives. 

The  country  girls  on  the  railroad-sta 
tion  steps  were  no  longer  compelled  to 
be  satisfied  with  tantalizing  glimpses  of 
the  styles  through  car  windows,  for 
every  train  of  "  the  season "  deposited 
on  those  very  steps  companies  of  miracu 
lously  dressed  ladies  and  pyramids  of 
back-breaking  trunks,  the  weight  of 
which  no  farmer  boy  in  Hilltop  had  ever 
lifted. 

The  country  roads,  along  which  the 
hay-carts  and  buggies  and  old-time 
chaises  of  so  many  generations  had  rum 
bled  without  even  fretting  away  their 
grassy  borders,  took  on  an  unwonted 
aspect,  now  on  summer  evenings, 
crowded  as  they  were  with  gay  city 
equipages. 

Down  from  the  Pinnacle  House,  into 
fernj'  lanes,  into  forest  roads,  and  into 
roads  cut  through  fields  of  blossoming 
clover,  rolled  the  stately  coaches  with 
their  liveried  outriders,  open  barouches 
filled  with  bevies  of  beautiful  ladies  and 
children,  and  the  pretty  basket  phaetons, 
their  ponies  driven  by  fair  hands,  while 
to  the  seat  behind  clung  a  caparisoned 
flunkey. 

Until  this  day  the  simple  Hill  topper 


had  believed  the  smart  teams  of  Busy- 
ville  fine  beyond  comparison ;  it  is  not 
strange,  then,  that  these  unwonted  splen 
dors  filled  their  souls  with  wonder  if  not 
with  longing. 

To  none  other  did  they  bring  so  strange 
and  deep  a  throb  as  to  the  heart  of  little 
Pansy  Vale.  The  first  one  that  she  ever 
saw  of  these  grand  city  carriages  seemed 
to  send  a  wild  intuition  through  her 
brain.  "  Just  such  a  fine  carriage  as  that 
will  come  some  day  and  carry  me  away," 
she  said  to  herself.  And  from  the  mo 
ment  that  this  thought  came  to  her  she 
never  doubted  it. 

If  Pansy  hated  anything,  and  it  was 
certain  that  she  did,  she  hated  house 
work,  and  her  especial  detestation  was 
wiping  dishes.  She  knew  nothing  of 
the  quiet  pleasure  which  Eirene  had  felt 
in  fulfilling  household  duties,  and  in 
making  everything  look  pleasant.  And 
Mary  Vale  often  said  to  herself"  I  would 
do  everything  myself  if  I  were  strong 
enough;  chores  seem  to  come  so  un 
natural  to  the  child."  Thus  it  was  a  new 
comfort  to  the  poor  mother,  when  the  lit 
tle  maiden  did  everything  that  she  was 
bidden  to  do  without  crying  or  fretting, 
if  she  only  had  the  promise  of  going  out 
to  the  gate  "  in  time  to  see  the  carriages." 

Tea  was  taken  and  all  the  evening 
tasks  performed  at  an  earlier  hour,  in 
order  that  the  little  girl  might  be  dressed 
and  at  the  gate  in  time  to  see  the  evening 
driving.  It  is  true,  also,  that  Mary  Vale 
enjoyed  a  pathetic  kind  of  pleasure  as 
she  sat  by  the  open  window  or  in  the 
porch  watching  the  cavalcade  pass  by. 
It  seemed  to  her  such  a  perfect  reflection 
of  the  brillant,  beautiful  life  of  that  world 
of  which  she  used  to  dream.  How  she 
had  longed  to  go  out  into  that  world, 
and,  how  wonderful,  the  world  itself  had 
come  to  her  very  door.  Thus  she  sat 
one  August  evening,  the  low  sunshine 
falling  on  her  brown  hair,  as  with  anxious 
eyes  she  looked  out  on  her  child.  Pansy 
stood  by  the  gate, — a  little  princess 
waiting  for  her  throne. 

She  had  been  unusually  fretful  over 
the  dishes  that  evening,  and  her  impa 
tience  while  being  arrayed  in  the  blue 
merino  frock  could  hardly  be  restrained. 


144 


EIRENE : 


"  Dear  me,  I'll  never  get  out  there ; 
they'll  all  be  gone  by,"  she  said. 

Now  she  leaned  over  the  low  gate 
and  looked  up  the  long  hill  far  away  to 
the  Pinnacle  House.  It  was  early  and 
she  saw  nothing  yet  of  the  gay  people 
from  the  hotel,  but  she  knew  they  would 
be  sure  to  come,  for  the  picturesque  road 
by  the  dormer  cottage  was  a  favorite 
drive.  As  she  watched  and  waited  the 
little  brain  was  very  busy.  "  Mother 
says  that  Eirene  is  patient,"  she  said  to 
herself.  "I  don't  care  if  she  is.  She  can 
be  patient  if  she  wants  to  be,  I  don't; 
she  can  work  if  she  likes  to,  I  don't.  I 
can't  like  to  wash  dishes  and  scour 
knives,  and  I'm  not  going  to  try.  They 
make  my  fingers  crack  and  make  them 
so  scratchy,  they're  hateful.  I  don't 
think  I'll  live  here  always.  It  don't 
seem  like  my  house.  If  one  of  these 
strange  ladies  would  ask  me  to  go  away 
with  her  I'd  go.  Mother  wouldn't  want 
me  to  go,  nor  father,  but  I'd  cry  and 
teaze  them,  and  they'd  let  me.  I  love 
mother  and  father,  too,  and  a  couple  of 
natural  tears  forced  themselves  into  the 
child's  eyes;  but  I  don't  want  to  stay 
here.  I  want  to  ride  in  a  carriage  with 
two  horses,  and  have  a  hat  full  of  white 
feathers  like  the  girl  from  Boston.  I'm 
a  great  deal  prettier  than  she  is  if  I  am 
poor !  0,  there's  my  carriage !  and  my 
lady." 

It  rolled  slowly  down  the  hill,  a 
basket  phaeton  drawn  by  two  black 
ponies,  a  dignified  African  in  a  livery  of 
black  and  silver  sitting  with  folded  arms 
on  the  seat  behind.  A  gentleman  leaned 
back  on  its  cushions,  while  a  beautiful 
woman  held  the  reins  in  her  small  and 
careless  hand.  She  seemed  to  hold 
them  still  more  loosely  as  she  drew 
nearer,  till  at  last  the  ponies  walked 
slowly  past  the  cottage,  while  the  lady 
took  a  full  survey  of  the  little  princess  at 
the  gate.  "  She  stood  in  that  same  spot 
and  wore  that  very  dress  a  year  ago. 
Don't  you  think  that  she  is  very 
pretty  ?  "  the  child  heard  the  lady  say  as 
the  carriage  rolled  on.  Amid  the  many 
which  she  had  seen  since,  how  well  she 
remembered  this  carriage,  the  first  one 
that  she  had  seen  on  the  road !.  That 


was  a  year  ago,  and  the  same  beautiful 
lady  was  driving  them  now.  How  she 
had  watched  and  watched  for  it,  but  it 
never  came  again  till  this  evening.  For 
the  truth  was  that  the  phaeton  had  rolled 
from  the  mountains  down  to  the  sea  and 
then  back  to  the  city,  and  had  only  just 
come  again  to  Hilltop  at  the  beginning 
of  another  season.  With  a  feeling  of 
disappointment  and  unhappiness,  which 
she  could  neither  fathom  nor  understand, 
the  child  watched  the  carriage  go  down 
the  hill  and  pass  out  of  sight. 

"  She  might  have  spoken  to  me,  she 
might "  said  the  little  lips,  with  a  passion 
ate  quiver.  "  She  remembered  me,  and 
she  said  that  I  was  pretty,  and  she  looked 
and  looked,  but  she  didn't  speak,  not  to 
me,  but  she  will,"  and  the  little  heart, 
which  a  moment  before  seemed  to  swell 
to  bursting,  gave  a  long  sigh  of  relief. 

Again  the  little  princess  shook  her 
glittering  hair  and  her  whole  face  grew 
radiant — the  carriage  was  coming  back, 
coming  much  faster  than  it  went  away. 
Pansy  watched  it  without  moving  her 
eyes,  till  the  lady  drove  directly  to  the 
gate.  Then  she  dropped  her  reins  and 
leaning  over  said  in  the  most  natural 
tone  in  the  world: 

"  What  is  your  name,  dear  ?  " 

"  Pansy  Vale." 

"  Pansy  Vale !  What  a  pretty  name. 
It's  just  like  you,  too.  She  looks  like  a 
Pansy,  don't  she,  Pierre,  with  such  dark 
purple  eyes  and  yellow  hair?  " 

"  She  is  a  marked  style,  ve-ry,"  said 
the  gentleman  thus  appealed  to." 

"Do  you  live  in  this  pretty  little 
house?  " 

"Yes,  madam." 

"  You  like  to  live  here,  don't  you  ?  " 

"No,  madam." 

"  What  dignity  I  Who  taught  you  to 
say  'madam'  with  such  an  air?  " 

"Nobody." 

"  Nobody  !  Well,  she  hasn't  the 
manner  of  a  country  child,  has  she, 
Pierre?" 

"  Perhaps  you  have  not  always  lived 
in  this  little  house,  and  that's  why  you 
don't  like  it?" 

"Yes,  I've  always  lived  here,  I  was 
born  here." 


A  WOMAN'S  RIGHT. 


145 


"  But  you  have  a  good  papa  and  mam 
ma,  haven't  you  ?  " 

"Yes,  indeed"  said  Pansy  with  em 
phasis. 

"  Yet  you  don't  like  to  live  with  them  ?" 
said  the  lady  reproachfully. 

"  I  do  like  to  live  with  them,  but  I 
don't  like  to  live  here,"  said  Pansy. 

"  Why  don't  you  like  to  live  here  ?  " 

"  It's  lonesome." 

"Is  that  all?" 

"  No,  madam,  I  don't  like  to  go  so  far 
to  school ;  the  sun  burns  me  and  makes 
me  red." 

"  0,  Pierre,  hear  the  child !  Who  would 
think  that  she  was  born  in  the  coun 
try  !" 

"  Now,  you  have  told  me  every  reason 
why  you  don't  like  to  live  here?" 

"0,  no  !  I  haven't  told  you  the  reason 
of  all — I  don't  like  to  wash  dishes  and 
scour  knives,  I  hate  it." 

At  this  announcement  the  gentleman 
laughed  outright. 

"What  would  you  like  to  do ?  " 

'•'  I  would  like  to  ride  in  a  carriage 
like  this  with  two  horses,  and  wear  a  hat 
full  of  white  feathers  like  the  girl  from 
Boston.  I  would  like  to  learn  to  dance 
and  sing,  and  paint  pictures,  and  talk 
French,  and  live  in  a  great  city  where  I 
could  see  a  great  many  people,  and 
where  they  could  see  me." 

"Well,  you  certainly  know  what  you 
want ;  that's  more  than  most  of  us  grown 
people  do,"  said  the  gentleman  with  a 
look  of  amusement. 

The  large  soft  eyes  of  the  lady  looked 
down  into  the  child's  face  with  an  in 
quiring  gaze. 

"  You  have  very  strange  notions,"  she 
said,  "for  a  country  child.  Does  your 
mamma  let  you  read  novels  ?  " 

"No,  I  only  read  the  stories  in  the 
newspapers.  I've  read  UNCLE  TOM'S 
CABIN,"  she  said  musingly. 

"  Then  you  know  all  about  little  Eva. 
Don't  you  want  to  be  like  her?" 

"  0,  no  indeed." 

"Why  not?" 

"  She  was  too  good.  If  I  were  like 
her  I'd  have  to  die." 

"  Do  you  want  to  live  ?  " 

"  0,  yes.   I'm  sure  this  world  is  a  great 


deal  pleasanter  than  heaven.  I  don't 
want  to  go  there  at  all." 

"  You  don't  ?     Why  not  ?  " 

"My  Sabbath-school  teacher  is  always 
telling  me  that  if  I  am  a  good  girl  I  can 
go  to  Heaven  and  sing  forever  and  ever. 
I  think  that  it  would  be  dreadfully  tire 
some  to  sing  forever  and  ever,  and  I 
shouldn't  like  it  any  .better  walking  (up 
and  down  by  a  river.  " 

Again  the  gentleman  laughed.  "  What 
stupid  ideas  good  people  have  of  Heaven 
any  way,"  he  said,  "  But  we  are  none 
of  us  so  sure  of  getting  there  that  we 
need  worry  about  it,  Puss.  " 

"  I  don't  believe  that  there  is  enough 
in  this  world  or  in  the  next  to  satisfy 
you,  my  little  Pansy,"  said  the  lady 
as  she  slowly  lifted  her  eyes  from  the 
child's  face ;  but  thereis  one  thing  that 
you  can  have  without  waiting — a  ride. 
Would  you  like  to  go  ?  n 

"  Oh,  how  much !  Thank  you,"  said 
the  excited  Pansy. 

"  Go  and  ask  your  mother,  then,  and 
if  she  says  yes,  we  will  take  you  up  to 
the  Pinnacle  House." 

"  But  stay,"  she  added,  "  that  is  hardly 
the  way  to  carry  off  a  mother's  child. 
Will  you  introduce  me  to  your  mother, 
Pansy  ?  "  And  gathering  up  her  delicate 
draperies,  she  stepped  out  upon  the  grass 
and  followed  Pansy  to  the  house. 

Mary  Vale,  who  had  witnessed  the 
conversation  from  her  seat  by  the  win 
dow,  rose  to  meet  the  tall  and  lovely 
stranger  whose  airy  robes  filled  all  her 
narrow  doorway. 

"  Mother !  this  is  my  lady — the  one 
that  I  chose  from  all  the  rest  last  Sum 
mer." 

"  I  did  not  know  that  I  had  been  so 
honored,  Mrs.  Vale,"  said  one  of  the  soft- 
e'st  voices  in  the  world  ;  "  although  I  no 
ticed  your  daughter  last  Summer,  and  re 
membered  her.  I  am  Mrs.  Stuy  vesant,  of 
New  York,  and  have  made  myself  very 
well  acquainted  with  your  daughter.  I 
am  very  fond  of  children,  of  little  girls 
especially.  If  you  will  be  So  kind  as  to 
let  me  drive  Pansy  to  the  Pinnacle 
House,  I  will  bring  her  back  safely  before 
dark. " 

"  It  is  you  who  are  kind,"  said  Mary 


146 


EIRENE: 


Vale,  as  she  offered  her  easiest  chair  to 
the  stranger,  while  Pansy  flew  up  stairs 
for  her  best  hat. 

"  Pansy  has  tried  to  describe  you  to 
me  many  times,  and  has  so  nearly  suc 
ceeded  that  it  seems  as  if  I  knew  you 
and  had  seen  you  many  times  before.  " 

Ere  these  simple  sentences  had  passed 
between  these  two  women,  they  had  felt 
intuitively  attracted  toward  each  other. 
The  one  was  young  and  of  rare  loveli 
ness,  carrying  with  her  the  unmistakable 
insignias  of  wealth  and  rank;  the  other 
was  faded,  and  bore  on  her  face  the  sign 
of  a  life  repressed  and  unfulfilled,  as  well 
as  an  expression  of  endurance  and  tender 
patience.  But  there  was  that  in  each 
which  appealed  to  the  other; -and  when 
Pansy  came  down  in  her  shabby  little 
hat  which  she  had  privately  punched, 
because  it  dared  to  be  her  best  one,  she 
found  her  mother  and  the  lovely  stran 
ger  conversing  as  if  they  were  not 
strangers.  She  entered  the  door  just 
in  time  to  hear  her  mother  say,  "  I  think 
it  is  beyond  my  power  to  make  the  child 
contented  or  happy ;  yet  I  often  reproach 
myself  for  it  all :  her  habits  and  state  of 
mind  are  the  reflections  of  what  mine 
were  before  she  was  born !  " 

A  few  moments  more  and  Mary  Yale 
watched  the  phaeton  roll  away,  with 
Pansy  seated  on  a  stool  before  the  lady 
and  gentleman.  She  noted  the  look  of 
almost  wild  delight  on  the  child's  face 
as  the  ponies  darted  away.  There  was 
such  a  difference  between  them  and  Mug 
gins  ! — such  a  difference  between  the  gli 
ding  phaeton  and  the  shaking  old  bug 
gy,  a  difference  which  Pansy  felt  fully 
now  for  the  first  time. 

"It  is  the  first  time  that  they  have 
come  to  take  the  child  away,  it  will  not 
be  the  last,"  said  Mary  Vale  with  a  sigh 
as  she  turned  to  go  back  to  the  house. 
"But  have  I  any  right  to  complain  if  the 
very  life  comes  to  my  child  which  I 
longed  for  so  much  for  myself,  when  she 
has  inherited  from  me  that  very  longing  ? 
Nobody  likes  to  take  the  consequences 
of  what  is  worst  in  themselves.  I  will 
try  to  take  mine  without  complaint.  " 
No  one  of  the  four  slept  very  well  that 
night.  Pansy  dreamed  all  night  of  the 


girl  from  Boston.  In  the  evening  she  saw 
her  on  the  great  piazza  of  the  Pinnacle 
House,  and  she  laughed  at  Pansy's  shab 
by  hat  with  its  faded  ribbons — Pansy  was 
sure  that  she  did,  and  that  she  ridiculed 
her  shabby  looks  to  the  girl  in  flounces 
by  her  side.  Thus  Pansy's  sleep  was  full 
of  wounded  vanity  and  wrathful  pride; 
she  talked  and  cried  and  ground  her  pret 
ty  teeth  in  her  sleep.  Mary  Vale  slum 
bers  were  filled  with  fears.  Cornelia 
Stuyvesant  could  not  sleep  at  all  for 
the  multitude  of  air  castles  that  kept 
shooting  up  from  her  brain.  "  0,  what  if 
it  could  be  !  If  she  could  take  that  child 
home  with  her,  adopt  her,  and  educate 
her,  who  could  tell,  after  she  had  mould 
ed  her  over  to  her  own  heart,  but  that 
she  would  be  the  wife  predestined  for 
Pierre  from  all  eternity.  What  a  life 
work  that  would  be,  to  mould  a  wife  for 
Pierre !" 

Pierre  himself  was  puzzling  his  brain 
in  a  very  misty  and  unsatisfactory  way, 
trying  to  expound  to  his  own  satisfaction 
the  natural  law  of  resemblances.  Why 
did  the  girl  at  the  gate  resemble  the  girl 
'  in  the  church  ?  rather  why  did  she  sug 
gest  her  ?  For  there  could  scarcely  be  a 
greater  contrast  than  between  that  bloom 
ing  young  girl  and  the  lovely  but  almost 
faded  young  woman  of  his  memory.  "  If 
it  were  possible,  I  should  say  it  were 
blood,  the  mysterious  out-raying  of  a 
family  look,"  he  said  to  himself;  "  but 
of  course  that's  impossible,  at  least  it's 
very  unlikely  that  the  solitary  face  I 
saw  in  Trinity  and  lost  on  Broadway 
ever  sprung  from  the  blackberries  and 
mulleins  of  Hilltop.  There  was  a  history 
written  in  that  face  if  I  ever  saw  one 
on  a  human  countenance,  but  then  she 
did  look  like  the  girl  at  the  gate."  There 
was  no  getting  away  from  this  fact,  and 
no  solution  for  it.  Thus,  in  a  very  unsatis 
factory  and  puzzled  state  of  mind,  Pierre 
at  last  departed  for  the  land  of  Nod. 

It  was  two  weeks  later.  Pansy  in 
the  meantime  had  had  many  drives  and 
talks  with  Mrs.  Stuyvesant,  each  one  of 
which  confirmed  the  latter  more  and 
more  in  her  desire  to  adopt  the  bright 
child,  and  to  give  her  the  opportunities 
of  a  life  which  she  seemed  born  to  adorn. 


-• 


A  WOMAN'S  RIGHT. 


147 


She  had  been  very  shy  of  talking  of  this 
reject  to  Pierre.  Doubtless  the  fell 
design  upon  his  future  which  she  was 
conscious  of  cherishing  in  her  purpose 
made  her  less  disposed  to  shift  any  re 
sponsibility  upon  him. 

She  informed  him,  however,  that  it 
she  could  persuade  Mrs.  Vale  to  give  her 
up  she  was  going  to  take  Pansy  home 
with  her. 

-   "  What  for,  pray  ?"  inquired  the  un 
impressionable  Pierre. 

"  Why,  don't  you  think  she  will  be  a 
great  deal  of  company  for  me,  now  you 
have  resolved  to  go  again  to  Europe  ?" 

"  Yes,  I  suppose  so." 

"  And  don't  you  think  it  worth  while 
to  give  such  a  bright  beautiful  child  bet 
ter  opportunities  and  fit  her  for  another 
sphere  in  life?  " 

"  I  am  not  so  sure  of  that.  Very  risky 
business,  lean  tell  you,  taking  such  a  miss 
out  into  the  world  which  she  is  so  crazy 
to  see.  She  would  be  a  good  deal  safer  if 
you  would  leave  her  among  the  black 
berry  bushes." 

"No,  Pierre,  not  half  so  safe;  not 
when  so  much  of  the  world  goes  by  her 
gate,  and  all  that  she  knows  of  it  is 
through  her  imagination.  She  is  too 
pretty  to  leave  here,  and  think.  Pierre, 
what  I  can  do  for  her ;  what  a  woman  I 
can  make  ol  her !  " 

"Hum!  A  perfectly  material  nature, 
measures  everything  already  by  what  it 
will  be  worth  to  herself.  Don't  like 
calculation  in  a  woman.  What's  a  woman 
without  spirituality?" 

"But  do  you  think  it  quite  fair  to 
measure  a  woman's  spirituality  in  a  child 
of  twelve  years  ?  " 

"  Well,  perhaps  not.  Of  course  you 
will  do  as  you  please,  Coma.  I  only 
wanted  to  tell  you  that  I  don't  hanker 
after  her  company,  and  think  it  will  be  a 
good  deal  of  a  nuisance  when  we  sit 
down  to  talk  together  to  have  her 
always  around. " 

"  O,  I'll  take  care  of  that  She  shall 
never  interfere  with  our  chats,  never." 

Coma  was  so  in  love  with  the  little 
romance  which  she  had  nursed  in  her 
heart,  that  in  this  instance  twice  as 
much  objection  on  her  brother's  part 


would  not  have  moved  her  from  her 
purpose. 

They  were  to  leave  the  next  day,  and 
Mrs.  Stuyvesant,  Mary  Vale,  and  Pansy 
were  in  the  cottage  sitting-room,  while 
the  phseton  and  the  black  servitor 
waited  without. 

"  Pansy,  you  shall  make  your  own 
choice,"  said  Mary  Vale  in  a  broken 
voice.  "  Will  you  go  with  the  lady,  or 
stay  with  your  mother  ?  '' 

There  was  a  pause.  Pansy  stood  be 
tween  the  two.  She  looked  at  her 
mother,  and  her  lips  quivered.  She 
looked  at  Cornelia  Stuyvesant,  and  her 
eyes  kindled,  and  a  glance  akin  to  tri 
umph  lighted  her  childish  features. 

"  I  will  go  with  you"  she  said.  "  When 
I  am  rich  and  have  my  own  beautiful 
house,  mother,  I  will  come  back  for 
you." 

It  could  not  be  unsaid.  The  child  had 
chosen,  and  her  choice  was  to  go  with 
strangers.  The  next  morning  a  tearful 
little  group  stood  once  more  at  the  gate, 
watching  out  of  sight  the  youngest  mem 
ber  of  the  house.  Not  as  Eirene  went 
did  Pansy  go.  No  jerking  Muggins,  no 
rattling  buggy,  carried  her  off.  No  little 
brass-nailed  trunk  went  behind  her  hold 
ing  her  possessions.  She  owned  nothing 
fine  enough  to  take  with  her  to  her 
new  estate  save  her  blue  merino  frock, 
and  that  she  wore.  Beside  Cornelia 
Stu3Tvesant  in  the  pretty  phaeton,  with 
the  black  ponies  and  the  black  footman 
in  silver  bands,  the  little  princess  went 
forth  to  her  kingdom  in  the  world.  As 
they  had  watched  Eirene  before,  they 
watched  her  up  the  hill — a  teazing,  dis 
satisfied  child,  who  had  ever  brought 
more  of  care  than  sunshine  to  the  house 
hold;  but  they  thought  not  of  that.  Had 
they  not  all  come  to  feel  that  it  was  a 
privilege  to  wait  on  her  and  to  try  to 
make  her  happy.  Was  she  not  Pansy,  the 
baby,  and  so  lovely  to  see !  Tears  were 
in  their  eyes  as  they  turned  back  to  the . 
house,  but  not  a  word  was  spoken. 
There  was  nothing  to  be  said.  Had  she 
not  chosen  to  go ! 

Thus  it  came  to  pass  that  for  the  first 
time  in  a  generation  a  bright  young  face 
became  visible  in  the  great  windows  of 


148 


EIRENE : 


De  Peyster  house.  While  Eirene  sat 
within  her  little  iron  railing,  poring  over 
ledgers,  and  casting  up  accounts,  and 
writing  business  letters  from  morning  till 
night,  Pansy  had  nothing  to  do  but  to  be 
dressed  and  to  drive  out  beside  Mrs. 
Stuyvesant,  or  to  learn  her  lessons  for 
the  masters  who  came  every  day  to  the 
house  to  teach  her.  To  be  sure  she  felt 
this  to  be  very  irksome,  yet  she  stud 
ied  bravely  and  made  rapid  proficiency  ; 
for  no  one  realized  more  than  Pansy  how 
indispensable  were  culture  and  accom 
plishments  to  6ne  lady-hood.  One  sister 
laid  down  on  an  iron  cot  in  her  bare  at 
tic  room,  and  if  her  eyes  were  not  too 
weary  or  her  heart  too  sad,  would  try  to 
study  past  sleeping  time,  as  she  did  of 
old.  The  other  sister,  in  a  lofty  chamber, 
which  had  once  been  the  nursery 
of  the  De  Peysters,  laid  down  on  a 
couch  curtained  and  covered  with  em 
broidered  laces,  amid  pictures  and  flow 
ers  and  every  appliance  which  affection 
and  wealth  could  devise,  and  dreamed  of 
still  richer  and  rarer  gifts  waiting  in  her 
future ;  and  neither  sister  knew  where 
the  other  was.  Mary  Vale's  last  injunc 
tion  to  Pansy  had  been,  "  G-o  and  see 
Eirene  as  soon  as  you  get  to  New  York," 
but  Pansy  had  not  gone,  nor  was  it  whol 
ly  her  fault.  Cornelia  Stuyvesant,  gen 
erous  in  almost  everything  else,  failed 
here.  It  was  not  pleasant  to  her  to 
think  that  Pansy  had  a  sister,  least  of  all 
that  she  bad  a  sister  in  the  same  city. 
By  so  much  she  seemed  less  entirely  hers. 
Few  of  her  class  were  as  free  as  she  from 
the  prejudice  of  caste,  yet  she  could  not 
forget  that  she  was  educating  Pansy  for 
a  sphere  far  above  that  in  which  she  was 
born ;  that  a  sister  in  a  shop  in  the  same 
city  and  on  visiting  terms,  to  say  the 
least,  would  be  inconvenient.  Even  Cor 
nelia  De  Peyster  was  not  entirely  noble 
•—how  many  of  us  are. 

Yet  she  was  incapable  of  deliberately 
separating  two  only  sisters.  She  fully 
intended  when  it  was  convenient  to  take 
Pansy  to  see  her  sister,  yet  she  involun 
tarily  without  knowing  wherefore  put  off 
the  day. 

"Is  your  sister  pretty?"  she  asked 
one  morning  of  her  pet. 


• "  She  used  to  be,"  said  Pansy. 

"Used  to  be!  Then  why  isn't  she 
now  ?  She  must  be  young." 

"  Well,  she  was  very  sick.  We  thought 
she  would  die,  and  she  has  never  looked 
the  same  since,"  said  Pansy  meditatively, 
guarding  Eirene's  secret  with  a  touch  of 
true  sisterly  feeling. 

"  Sick !  I'm  sorry ;  but  does  she  look 
like  you  ?  " 

"  I've  heard  mother  say  that  we  both 
had  the  family  look,  but  Eirene's  hair  is 
brown." 

"  I  am  glad  of  that ;  I  don't  want  any 
one  to  look  like  you,  Pansy.  But  is  your 
sister  like  you  ?  " 

"  No,  indeed ;  I  wish  I  was  like  her,  or 
I  would  if  she  wasn't  so  quiet  It  would 
tire  me  to  death  to  study,  and  be  as  still 
as  Eirene  is.  If  I  tried  it  would  make 
me  scream  right  out." 

"  You  needn't  try,  my  darling.  I 
don't  want  you  to  be  like  any  one  but 
yourself.  Although  it  is  very  proper  and 
commendable  in  your  sister  to  study  and 
make  the  most  of  herself,  poor  thing  !  " 

Cornelia  De  Peyster  instinctively  felt 
a  touch  of  pity  for  the  unknown  girl, 
whose  distant  image  rose  faintly  before 
her,  wasted  by  sickness,  silent  and  alone, 
yet  she  found  herself  resolutely  turning 
away  from  it,  why  she  knew  not,  unless 
it  was  because  she  could  not  bear  the 
thought  that  Pansy  had  a  sister. 

Meanwhile  that  sister  had  long  since 
learned  by  a  letter  from  her  mother  of  the 
change  in  Pansy's  fortunes,  that  she  was  in 
the  very  city  with  her,  that  she  would 
soon  come  and  see  her.  Day  by  day  she 
waited,  but  no  Pansy  came.  In  the 
morning  when  she  went  to  her  desk,  she 
would  say,  :<  She  will  come  to  day." 
And  at  night  when  she  went  to  the 
lodging-house  that  she  called  home, 
"She  has  been  here,  I  know,  and  left 
word  where  I  can  meet  her ;  "  but  the 
long  days  wore  into  weeks,  and  no  Pansy 
appeared.  As  the  hope  too  long  delayed 
wore  out,  Eirene's  yearning  to  see  her 
sister  became  almost  a  sickness — the  sister 
whom  long  ago  she  held  in  her  arms, 
whose  hair  she  had  combed  and  played 
with,  whose  little  bumped  nose  she  had 
so  often  bathed  with  camphor,  and  whose 


A  WOMAN'S  RIGHT. 


149 


scratched  and  pounded  fingers  she  had  so 
many  times  cured  with  kisses.  It  was 
Pansy  from  home,  with  the  freshness  of 
the  hills  on  her  face,  and  'the  sweetbrier 
scent  in  her  garments,  and  the  mother- 
touch  on  her  head,  but  where  ?  Shut  up 
in  some  great  New  York  mansion  where 
she  co<ild  not  find  her  !  The  conviction 
fixed  itself  on  her  mind  at  last  that  the 
rich  lady  who  had  adopted  Pansy  did 
not  intend  that  she  should  associate  with 
a  sister  whose  lot  in  life  was  to  be  so  dif 
ferent.  Then  she  thought,  "  I  will 
not  intrude,  I  will  not  do  anything  to 
mar  her  prospects,  but  I  will  find  the 
house,  and  perhaps  from  a  distance  I  can 
see  her  go  in  or  come  out." 

Thus  if  Pierre  De  Peyster  had  been  at 
home,  and  had  sauntered  to  the  drawing- 
room  windows  as  he  sometimes  used  to 
do,  he  might  have  seen  just  at  early  dusk 
a  slight  figure  hovering  amid  the  shrub 
bery  of  the  little  park  before  the  house, 
and  a  face  sometimes  wistfully  lifted  to 
ward  the  windows,  which,  if  it  were  not 
too  dark,  he  would  have  recognized  as 
the  one  that  he  saw  at  Trinity.  He  was 
not  there,  but  away  beyond  the  ocean, 
studying  science,  and  trying  to  persuade 
himself  that  he  was  very  much  occupied 
and  living  a  very  complete  life. 

Eirene.  when  her  day's  work  was  done, 
would  turn  her  face  toward  the  mansion 
of  the  De  Peyster's.  It  was  rather  late, 
and  she  sometimes  felt  timid  when  her 
pausing  in  the  park  seemed  to  attract 
the  attention  of  a  passer-by.  But  no  one 
ever  accosted  her.  The  subdued  dress, 
the  shrinking  face,  were  enough  to  com 
mand  respect  from  any  one  who  noticed 
them.  The  most  depraved  man,  had  de 
moralized  habit  moved  him  to  speak, 
would  have  paused  and  have  remained 
silent  with  one  look  at  her  face.  It  would 
have  been  offering  insult  to  his  sister,  or 
the  young  mother  whose  smile  made  the 
heaven  of  his  childhood. 

She  never  lingered  long.  Sometimes 
she  would  go  for  days  and  not  catch  a 
glimpse  of  any  one  within  the  great  cur 
tained  windows.  Once  she  saw  a  young 
girl  come  to  one  of  them  and  look  out, 
and  then  go  away.  It  was  Pansy.  At 
the  sight  of  her  sister's  face  her  heart 


gave  a  bound,  and  forgetting  everything 
she  started  toward  the  house:  she  reached 
the  stone  steps  and  began  to  ascend,  when 
her  heart  failed  her.  Pansy  would  be 
glad  to  see  her — she  was  sure  that  she 
would,  but  the  lady,  the  lady  who  owned 
this  grim  old  house,  who  had  made  Pansy 
a  daughter  in  it,  she  rose  before  her  in 
overpowering  state  and  majesty;  she 
could  not  meet  her,  not  in  her  own 
parlor,  into  which  she  had  never  been 
invited,  and  where  she  could  only  appear 
as  an  unwelcome  intruder.  With  an 
anguish  and  desolation  in  her  heart  for 
which  there  were  neither  words  nor 
tears,  she  turned  and  fled  from  the  house 
as  rapidly  as  she  had  approached  it. 

As  she  looked  up  from  her  books  one 
morning,  she  noticed  a  lady  buying  goods 
at  an  opposite  counter.  She  wore  a  suit 
of  black  velvet  trimmed  with  Russian 
sable,  and  the  costly  elegance  of  her  cos 
tume  and  the  remarkable  type  of  her 
beauty  both  attracted  Eirene's  attention. 
Soon  a  young  girl  came  from  another 
counter  and  took  a  stool  by  the  lady's 
side.  She  also  wore  black  velvet  re- 
leived  by  brightblue  ribbons  and  plumes, 
her  yellow  hair  glittering  like  a  fleece 
of  gold  around  her  head  and  shoulders. 
No  human  being  would  have  thought 
that  the  dainty  little  fingers  tossing 
about  the  costly  fabrics  on  the  counter  had 
ever  been  made  red  by  hot  dish  water,  or 
rough  with  a  coarse  dish  towel, — and  yet 
they  had  both,  for  these  were  Pansy's 
fingers.  No  one  would  have  dreamed 
that  she  had  ever  been  a  princess  with 
out  a  throne  to  have  seen  her  seated  on 
that  high  shop  stool.  Not  that  she  said 
much,  she  left  Mrs.  Stuy  vesant  to  do  the 
talking,  but  she  "had  an  air,"  and  was  not 
the  coach  with  its  outriders  waiting  out 
side.  They  were  just  turning  to  go, 
they  had  nearly  passed  the  young  book 
keeper's  cage  on  the  other  side  of  the  shop 
when  Pansy  half  caught  the  gaze,  the  in 
tent,  eager,  questioning  gaze  fixed  upon 
her.  She  did  not  turn  to  look,  but  walk 
ed  straight  on.  If  it  was  her  sister,  and 
she  felt  that  it  was — the  passing  glimpse 
had  told  her  that — but  here  was  no  place 
to  meet  her.  Had  she  not  been  playing 
the  grand  lady  in  miniature,  and  now 


13J 


EIRENE : 


before  all  the  shoptenders  to  rush  into 
the  arms  of  one  of  them  and  call  her  sis 
ter  !  This  thought  lasted  Pansy  as  far 
as  the  door,  when  a  deeper  and  stronger 
feeling  overthrew  it  altogether,  and  she 
exclaimed  to  Mrs.  Stuyvesant,  "0,  I 
must  go  back !  I  saw  somebody  as  I 
came  out  who  looked  so  much  like 
Eirene !" 

She  returned  to  the  desk  more  swiftly 
than  she  had  passed  it,  and  leaning  over 
the  wire  railing, — there  were  but  two 
words — 

"Pansy!" 

"  Eirene ! " 

They  embraced,  then  gazed  into  each 
other's  faces. 

Just  then  Mrs.  Stuyvesant  came  up. 

"  It  is  my  fault,"  she  said  to  Eirene, 
without  waiting  for  an  introduction.  "  I 
have  been  very  selfish.  Yet  I  have  not 
deliberately  separated  two  sisters.  Come 
and  see  Pansy?  Will  you  come  this 
evening.  If  so,  I  will  send  the  carriage 
for  you." 

Eirene,  who  realized  nothing  now  but 
that  she  had  her  sister  back  again,  gave 
her  assent,and  Cornelia  Stuyvesant,  wish 
ing  to  avoid  all  the  public  notice  possible 
in  the  shop,  hastened  forth  with  Pansy, 
every  clerk  in  it  gazing  after  her.  It 
all  seomed  so  sudden  and  unreal  to 
Eirene,  such  a  meeting  with  her  sister 
and  such  a  suddsn  termination  of  it,  that 
it  was  with  great  difficulty  that  she 
brought  her  mind  back  to  her  duties  for 
the  remainder  of  the  day. 

The  stately  carriage  came  to  the  lodg 
ing  house  for  her  at  an  early  hour  in  the 
evening.  The  sisters  had  a  long  visit 
alone  in  Pansy's  beautiful  room,  in  which 
they  exchanged  many  confidences,  and 
another  visit  in  the  presence  of  Mrs. 
Stuyvesant  in  the  great  library.  It  was 
not  the  great  pictures,  Johanes  De  Pey- 
ster's  grandfather  in  his  mighty  wig, 
nor  the  handsome  Colonel  Arent  De 
Peyster  with  all  his  gold  stars  and  lace, 
nor  even  the  massive  carved  cases  filled 
with  books,  which  overawed  Eirene  and 
made  her  trembling  soul  dumb  within 
her, — it  was  the  slender  and  stately  lady 
who  sat  their  with  the  soft  sad  look  in 
her  beautiful  eyes,  but  with  a  manner  so 


remote  and  cold  even  in  its  kindness  that 
that  it  made  the  stranger  before  her  feel 
that  she  was  shut  out  from  her  sympathy 
•forever.  Every  moment  it  seemed  to 
Eirene  that  she  must  burst  in  tears,  she 
knew  not  wherefore,  and  she  felt  so  no 
less  at  her  departure,  when  Mrs.  Stuy 
vesant  politely  invited  her  to  come  again, 
and  promised  that  Pansy  should  visit 
her,  and  in  addition  proffered  the  car 
riage  for  the  two  to  ride  together  to  the 
Park  some  day. 

With  Cornelia  this  was  her  superla 
tive  effort  to  do  right,  to  "  do  her  duty  " 
by  Pansy's  unfortunate  sister. 

Being  in  no  wise  a  hypocrite  with  all 
her  polish  and  grace,  she  performed  an 
insincere  act  ungracefully,  from  the 
mere  fact  that  her  gracious  words  ex 
pressed  nothing  of  her  real  feelings. 
Eirene  felt  quite  as  much  like  crying  as 
if  she  had  not  been  invited  to  ride. 
Nothing  could  have  added  to  her  exqui 
site  consciousness  of  the  immeasurable 
distance  between  herself  and  the  foster 
mother  of  her  sister.  Time  did  not 
bridge  this  distance.  It  widened  it. 
Cornelia  Stuyvesant  did  not  cease  to 
make  efforts  to  be  kind  to  Eirene,  but 
not  one  of  them  could  hide  the  truth  from 
her — that  Pansy's  friend  was  sorry  that 
Pansy  had  a  sister.  Under  the  circum 
stances  Eirene  thought  this  very  natu 
ral.  She  at  least  taught  herself  to  accept 
the  fact,  that  in  the  complete  sense  her 
sister  could  be  her  sister  no  longer. 
'  She  avoided  De  Peyster  house,  and 
never  went  there  except  on  special  invi 
tation  and  occasions.  These  occasions 
were  rare.  In  them  her  intercourse 
with  Mrs.  Stuyvesant  never  passed  the 
bound  of  formal  politeness  and  kindness. 
She  never  heard  her  mention  her  bro 
ther's  name,  and  did  not  know  that  she 
had  a  brother — Mrs.  Stuyvesant,  as  we 
know,  for  her  own  reasons  taking  pains 
to  keep  such  knowledge  from  her. 

Meanwhile,  Pierre  De  Peyster  did  not 
hasten  back.  Two  years  went, — but 
when  the  third  came,  it  brought  him  the 
opportunity  of  his  life,  as  it  brought  it 
to  so  many  Americans  who  till  then  had 
never  dreamed  of  their  destiny. 

The  first  gun  of  the  civil  war  brought 


A  WOMAN'S  RIGHT.  151 

him  home.     He  was  as  true  to  the  prin-  expense — started  with  it  as  its  surgeon ; 

ciples  of  constitutional  freedom  and  as  and  when  Eirene  wrote  her  first  letter 

eager  to  defend  them  as  were  the   De  of  the   war   to  her  mother,  Pierre  De 

Peysters  of  the  seventeenth  century.  Peyster  was  already  at  the  front  with 

He  equipped  a  regiment  at  his  own  his  regiment. 


152 


EIRENE : 


CHAPTER  XV. 


THE  WAS. 

Eirene  to  her  Mother. 

NEW  YORK,  June,  1861. 
SATURDAY. — Dear  Mother :  This  is  wan 
Now  it  seems  as  if  life  never  meant  any 
thing  before.  I  stood  on  the  steps  of  a 
house  overlooking  the  vast  crowd  at  the 
meeting  at  Union  Square,  and  .as  I  lis 
tened  to  Colonel  Baker,  the  most  elo 
quent  of  men,  and  watched  the  new-born 
army  of  American  citizens  below,  in  their 
silence  more  eloquent  than  he,  and 
thought  of  the  great  sacrifice  for  liberty 
just  begun,  I  wondered  how  I  had  ever 
been  so  absorbed  in  my  own'little  life,  or 
had  cared  so  much  about  it.  The  whole 
city  has  blossomed  out  in  banners ;  they 
float  from  every  house ;  they  line  and 
canopy  Broadway.  Under  those  ban 
ners,  amid  waving  handkerchiefs  and 
streaming  eyes  and  beating  drums,  the 
whole  nation  seems  to  be  marching  to 
war.  The  rudest  men  of  the  town  swarm 
up  from  the  lower  streets  arrayed  in  uni 
form  ;  they  are  going  to  the  war.  The 
most  cultivated  men  of  the  town  march 
out  from  their  splendid  homes  in  uni 
forms,  amid  tears  apd  prayers ;  they,  too, 
are  going  to  the  war.  Alas!  already 
they  are  beginning  to  come  back.  Fune 
ral  pageants  follow  quick  upon  the  tri 
umphant  march.  Day  by  day  Broadway 
is  walled  on  either  side  by  a  mass  of  hu 
manity  tearful  and  silent.  All  its  roar  is 
hushed;  wailing  music,  the  measured 
stride  of  horses,  the  muffled  footfall  of 
marching  men  smite  the  silence  with  a 
stroke  of  pain.  Then  we  see  mounted 
cavaliers  with  bowed  heads,  long  lines  of 
infantry  with  reversed  arms,  a  hearse 
with  nodding  plumes,  holding  a  coffin 
wrapped  in  a  flag  and  covered  with  flow 
ers,  followed  by  a  riderless  horse,  and 
carriages  filled  with  mourning  friends. 
Mother,  this  is  war. 

MONDAY. — Every  train  brings  in  new 


regiments.  0  mother,  they  all  seem 
boys  from  home,  these  bright-eyed, 
brown-cheeked  men,  fresh  from  the  hills 
and  valleys  of  the  land.  The  men  from 
Vermont,  how  big  they  are;  I  did  not 
know  that  even  the  Green  Mountains 
could  send  forth  such  a  regiment  of 
giants.  To  see  them  march  down  Broad 
way,  to  know  that  so  many  are  march 
ing  only  to  death,  how  strange  and  aw 
ful  it  seems ;  and  this  is  war ! 

MONDAY. — I  was  going  to  my  dinner, 
when  I  saw  a  regiment  coming,  and  the 
crowd  on  the  pavement  was  too  near  for 
me  to  escape  it.  It  pressed  me  to  the 
very  curbstone,  and  I  stood  there  lean 
ing  against  a  tree,  although  it  seemed 
more  than  I  could  bear  to  see  another 
regiment  go  by.  I  had  seen  so  many, 
and  my  heart  felt  so  wrung.  But  this 
one  marched  so  proudly,  its  banners 
were  so  bright,  its  men  so  young,  their 
uniforms  so  gay,  that,  as  cheer  after  cheer 
went  up  from  the  street,  I  felt  their  en 
thusiasm,  and  forgot  everything  but  my 
delight  and  pride  in  my  countrymen.  I 
looked  up  and  read  the  name  on  their 
flag.  It  seemed  as  if  my  heart  leaped 
out  of  my  body.  "Rene!"  I  heard  a 
voice  say.  It  came  out  of  the  ranks. 
The  outer  line  was  so  near  I  could  have 
touched  it.  "  Rene !"  I  heard  it  again. 
Before  my  very  face  marched  Win. 
He  stepped  out  of  the  ranks.  He 
stretched  out  his  hand — wrung  mine — 
marched  on ;  before  I  could  speak  he  was 
gone,  gone  1  O  mother,  why  didn't 
you  write  that  his  regiment  was  coming? 
Or  didn't  you  know  when  it  would  reach 
New  York?  Or  did  you  think  that  it 
would  only  pass  through?  I  went  di 
rectly  back  to  the  shop,  and  to  the  count 
ing-room.  I  said  to  Mr.  Mann,  "I  am 
going  to  the  war!" 

"Are  you  insane,   Miss  Vale?"   he 
asked. 


A  WOMAN'S  EIGHT. 


153 


"No,"  I  said,  "but  I  must  go." 
"  But  you  can't  fight." 
"No,"  I  said,  "  but  I  can  nurse  those 
who  do.     My  brother ;    if  not  him,  the 
brothers  of  many  others." 

Mother,  I  am  going. 

Mr.  Mann  didn't  think  me  crazy  after 
all.  He  has  two  sons  already  at  the 
front;  the  thought  of  them  makes  him 
tender.  "  If  it's  a  man's  right  to  fight," 
he  said,  "it's  a  woman's  to  nurse  I  don't 
deny ;  only.  Miss  Vale,  don't  go  in  an  un 
directed,  hap-hazard  way.  Don't  go  on 
your  own  responsibility.  The  enthusias 
tic  foolish  girls  who  are  rushing  to  Wash 
ington  to  nurse,  though  they  haven't 
the  sense  or  nerve  to  nurse  a  chicken 
with  a  broken  toe,  are  doing  a  great  deal 
of  harm.  They  are  creating  a  prejudice 
against  women  nurses  which  thousands 
of  trained  nurses  can  hardly  overcome. 
Nursing  is  a  business,  and  requires 
training  like  any  other.  Go  to  Church 
Hospital,"  he  said,  "  and  join  the  Sisters 
of  St.  John.  They  are  being  very  thor 
oughly  prepared  for  their  work;  they  will 
go  out  under  the  care  of  a  superintend 
ent,  with  a  regular  commission  from  the 
War  Department;  they  will  have  their 
work  assigned  them,  and  due  honor  in 
doing  it.  It's  their  ridiculous  way  of 
doing  a  thing,  often,  not  their  doing  it, 
that  makes  half  the  opposition  against 
women's  work.  Cultivate  common 
sense,  Miss  Vale,  and  you  can  do  what 
ever  you  see  fit  to  do* 

I  thanked  him  for  his  excellent  advice 
and  started.  But  he  called  me  back. 

"  What  are  you  going  to  live  on  ?"  he 
asked.  "  The  sisters  of  St.  John  receive 
nothing  but  their  rations." 

"I  have  a  year's  savings  in  the  bank," 
I  said,  "  and  I  will  write  to  my  friend 
(Moses)  to  give  me  an  extension  on  my 
payment  for  the  house.  I  feel  sure  that 
he  will  do  it." 

"  I  only  wanted  to  know  if  you  were 
losing  your  reason  in  your  enthusiasm, 
and  growing  improvident.  Charity  does 
begin  at  home,  Miss  Vale,"  he  said. 

"Yes,  sir,"  I  answered,  "I  know  that 
it  does ;  but,  with  the  little  farm,  what 
I  have  saved  is  more  than  will  be  needed 
at  home  for  a  year." 


"  I  wanted  to  be  certain  that  you  had 
thought  of  it,  before  I  told  you  that  your 
salary  can  go  on,  while  you  are  a  nurse, 
the  same  as  if  you  were  here.  What 
you  have  in  the  bank  can  stay  there." 

"  You  are  too  good  to  me,"  I  said. 

"  No.  If  you  do  your  share,  let  me 
do  mine,"  he  answered,  and  gave  me  his 
hand  in  token  of  approval. 

TUESDAY. — Mother,  here  I  am.  The 
hospital  seems  so  strange,  but  it  is  very 
bright  and  clean.  I  see  such  strange 
sights  here.  Splendid  carriages  are  con 
tinually  being  driven  up  to  the  door,  filled 
with  ladies  of  every  age.  If  you  could 
see  what  they  bring !  Money,  stores, 
delicacies  of  every  kind,  to  be  sent  to  the 
front.  They  bring  piles  on  piles  of  sheets, 
of  the  most  costly  linen,  the  most  deli 
cate  fabrics ;  and  some  of  them  sit  down 
and  tear  them  up  in  the  most  frantic 
manner.  We  have  great  rooms  filled 
with  linen  bandages  all  ready  to  be  sent. 
Dr.  Mott  says  there  will  not  be  war 
enough  to  use  up  half  the  bandages  now 
in  this  hospital.  I  can't  help  being 
amused  by  some  of  the  young  ladies  who 
apply  to  be  nurses.  They  come  so  beau 
tifully  dressed — they  have  such  wonder 
ful  little  caps  on  theii;  heads,  with  such 
ruffled  and  fluted  aprons.  From  what 
I  can  gather,  their  whole  idea  of  nursing 
is  to  sit  in  this  beautiful  attire  by  a 
handsome  officer's  bed,  rolling  bandages, 
or  reading  to  him.  When  our  Sister  Su 
perior  asks  them  to  lay  afljde  this  elegant 
costume,  and  put  on  the  plain  black 
dress  of  the  real  nurse,  it  seems  very 
hard,  and  some  of  them  refuse.  Then, 
when  they  have  to  take  their  turn  in  the 
wards  to  watch  all  night — to  nurse  some 
one  old,  and  ugly,  and  poor,  their  last 
glimpse  of  romance  vanishes,  and  I  notice 
in  a  day  or  two  a  carriage  comes  and  takes 
them  back  to  their  home.  I  understand 
now  what  Mr.  Mann  meant.  Some  rush 
on  to  the  army  without  any  preparation 
or  knowledge  of  what  they  are  doing 
whatever,  and  I  am  afraid  do  much 
harm.  I'm  under  training,  as  Mr.  Mann 
says.  I'd  just  as  lief  be  trained  as  not. 
I  like  it.  One  company  of  sisters  has  al 
ready  gone,  ours  will  go  the  first  of 
August.  I  can  scarcely  wait.  0,  mother, 


154 


EIRENE : 


I  know  how  you  felt  when  you  kissed 
Win,  and  said  good-by,  and  saw  him  go 
out  of  the  old  door — go  to  the  war.  I 
know  by  what  I  felt  when  I  saw  him 
march  down  the  street  with  the  men,  a 
soldier.  He  couldn't  kiss  me,  nor  say 
good-by;  yet  I  watched  him  march, 
march  out  of  sight,  to — what?  This  is 
war,  the  war  that  he  dreamed  of  so  long 
ago  in  the  old  barn,  when  we  were  chil 
dren.  He  said  then  that  he  would  some 
day  be  a  soldier — and  he  is  a  soldier. 
To  think  that  I  lived  to  see  him  march 
away ! 

August,  1861. 

DEAR  MOTHER  : — To-night  we  go.  I 
have  just  been  to  bid  Mrs.  Stuyvesant  and 
Pansy  good-by.  Mrs.  Stuyvesant  was 
very  kind.  How  lovely  she  is.  I  never 
felt  so  drawn,  and  yet  so  repelled,  by  any 
one  before.  I  could  not  put  into  words 
the  admiration  I  feel  for  her,  yet  when  I 
try  to  say  the  simplest  thing,  she  seems 
so  remote,  so  inaccessible  to  me,  that  I 
can  scarcely  speak  to  her  at  all.  I  fear  • 
in  her  heart  that  she  cannot  like  me.  I 
am  sorry.  The  love  of  such  a  woman 
would  be  so  much  to  me,  for  her  own 
sake,  and  because  she  is  so  much  to 
Pansy.  Sometimes,  for  a  moment,  I 
think  that  she  does  feel  kindly  towards 
me.  She  will  look  on  me  so  sweetly, 
and  her  manner  will  seem  almost  affec 
tionate  ;  then,  in  an  instant,  such  a  cold 
look  will  cover  her  face,  and  her  manner 
will  grow  so  •mote,  as  if  in  heart  she 
had  withdrawn  from  me  the  whole 
width  of  the  earth.  But  I  mustn't  care 
for  this  now,  not  when  I  have  so  much 
more  than  myself  to  care  for.  Still  I 
find  that  it  makes  me  almost  happy  to 


remember  that  her  last  words  were  very 
kind.  She  put  a  little  netted  purse  in 
my  hand  and  said  :  "  Here  is  a  trifle  for 
the  wounded.  If  at  any  time  you  want 
money  for  any  purpose,  don't  hesitate 
to  send  to  me.  G-ive  me  the  privilege 
of  doing  some  good  at  least  with  that." 
When  I  opened  the  purse,  I  found  in  it 
a  hundred  little  gold  dollars. 

It  was  hard  to  part  with  Pansy,  and 
yet  in  one  sense  it  seems  as  if  I  parted 
with  her  for  life  long  ago.  She  was  very 
affectionate.  It  moves  her  more  deeply 
than  she  owns,  to  think  that  Win  is  a 
soldier.  The  gentlemen  whom  she  knows 
here  who  have  gone  are  all  young  offi 
cers,  who  went  away  with  shining 
swords  and  beautiful  uniforms  and 
prancing  horses.  It  hurts  her  to  think 
that  her  own  brother  must  suffer  all  the 
hardships  of  the  common  soldier.  I 
wish  myself,  mother,  that  he  had  a  horse. 
Pansy  has  grown  to  be  very  elegant,  and 
is  as  beautiful  as  ever.  I  looked  at  her 
in  her  cbstly  dress,  and  tried  to  make  her 
the  little  Pansy  who  wore  the  blue  me 
rino  frock  that  I  made  myself,  and 
couldn't — not  until  she  threw  her  arms 
around  my  neck  in  the  hall  and  whis 
pered  :  "  Change  that  into  money  for 
you  and  Win,"  and  she  put  into  my 
hand  her  diamond  ring. 

When  I  write  you  again,  dear  mother, 
it  will  be  from  the  South.  As  far  as  I 
can,  I  will  keep  a  little  journal,  and  tell 
you  everything  that  happens. 

I'll  not  say  good-by,  for  I  am  coming 
back.  I  know  you  will  pray  for  your 
children. 

Your  loving  child, 

EIRENE. 


A  WOMAN'S  RIGHT.' 


CHAPTER  XVI. 


ETRENE  TO  HEB  MOTHEB.J 

MARYLAND  HEIGHTS,  August,  1862. 
DEAR  MOTHER: — A  part  of  our  corps 
of  nurses  is  detailed  for  Pleasant  Valley, 
Maryland,  the  rest  of  us  are  to  go  into 
the  Valley  of  Virginia  and  are  now  on 
our  way.  As  we  had  an  escort  we 
came  up  this  old  mountain  rather  than 
around  it,  for  none  of  us  were  willing  to 
miss  the  sight  from  its  summit.  Our 
flag  is  flying  from  its  highest  peak,  our 
batteries  are  bristling  all  around  its 
crown,  we  have  a  strong  garrison  here 
to  guard  the  valley  below.  In  an  hour 
the  ambulances  are  to  come  to  convey 
us  down ;  thus  you  see,  dear  mother,  I 
have  nothing  to  do  till  then,  but  to  sit 
on  this  rock  and  write  to  you.  If  I 
could  only  tell  you  what  I  see,  so  that 
you  could  see  it !  I  can't,  I  fear.  On 
one  side  I  look  down  into  Pleasant  Val 
ley,  a  lovely  rural  valley,  the  white  tents 
of  war  gleaming  through  its  foliage ; — it 
stretches  away  toward  the  beautiful  val 
ley  of  Frederic  with  its  environing  hills, 
so  blue  they  remind  me  more  than  any 
others  of  the  hills  of  home.  Before  me 
is  the  great  Valley  of  Virginia,  walled  by 
the  Blue  Ridge  and  the  distant  Allegha- 
nies,  and  watered  on  either  side  by  two 
rapid  rivers,  the  Shenandoah  and  Poto 
mac,  which  rush  together  at  the  base  of 
this  mountain.  It  is  a  vast  valley.  Now 
it  stretches  away  an  embattled  plain. 
I  can  think  of  nothing  but  the  hosts  of 
Xerxes  as  my  eyes  travel  over  the  cities 
of  tents  which  line  the  river,  climb  the 
heights,  and  spread  on  through  all  the 
valley  out  of  sight.  Across  the  Shenan 
doah,  above  Loudon  Heights,  beyond  it, 
I  seem  to  see  the  peaks  of  the  Delectable 
Mountains.  I  am  on  a  high  mountain 
myself,  but  beyond,  other  and  other 
mountains  range  on  range  lift  their  love 
ly  green  crowns  into  the  clear  blue  at- 
mosphe/3.  Such  an  atmosphere  !  There 


is  the  bright  tenderness  in  it  that  Rus- 
kin  talks  about,  a  bright  softness  I  should 
say,  it  is  so  crystal  clear  and  yet  so  suf 
fused  with  warmth.  On,  on  far  as  my 
eyes  can  travel  other  mountain  tops 
notch  the  brilliant  sky.  A  poor  wizened 
old  woman  lives  in  the  hut  yonder.  She 
told  me  all  about  John  Brown.  On  this 
very  mountain  top  only  a  few  rods 
away  he  lived  in  a  little  log  house  with 
his  daughter  the  whole  winter  before  he 
matured  his  plan  and  descended  upon 
the  arsenals  at  Harper's  Ferry  below.  I 
try  to  make  it  real  to  myself,  the  life 
that  he  lived  here  through  that  long 
winter  on  this  mountain  top.  Without, 
no  voice  spoke  to  him  but  the  screaming 
winds  which  in  winter  must  sweep  over 
these  summits  in  hurricanes.  Nothing 
about  him  but  the  freedom,  the  isolation, 
the  vastness  of  the  mountains.  Such  a 
sense  of  power,  of  vastness  comes  to  one 
in  such  a  place.  How  much  mightier 
one  feels  to  do  than  he  ever  can  on 
the  levels  below.  I  never  thought  of  it 
before,  but  what  a  sanctity  rests  on  the 
mountain  tops  of  the  world.  The  law 
was  delivered  on  Sinai.-  From  an  ex 
ceeding  high  mountain  Christ,  beholding 
them  all  beneath  Him,  rejected  the  king 
doms  of  the  earth.  On  a  high  mountain 
He  took  upon  himself  the  ministry  of 
death.  On  a  high  mountain  apart  He 
was  transfigured. 

Yes,  this  lonely  summit  seems  a  fit 
place  whereon  a  solitary  nature  might 
nurse  a  sublime  purpose.  What  a  study 
of  the  mental  and  spiritual  influence  of 
mountain  scenery  on  a  deeply  imagina 
tive  and  religious  man  the  life  of  John 
Brown  affords.  Long  before  he  came 
here  he  dwelt  amid  the  solitudes  of  the 
Adirondacs.  I  look  at  his  ruined  hut 
so  torn  and  silent,  so  far  behind  him  now 
if  his  "soul  is  marching  on,"  and  feel 
that  here  by  its  isolated  fire,  here  on  this 


156 


ETRENE : 


mountain  top,  the  awful  war  for  freedom 
began,  began  in  the  heart  and  purpose 
of  one  solitary  man  ;  and  now  this  whole 
army  before  me  is  but  part  of  the  result 
Here  where  the  floods  had  torn  the  very 
mountains  asunder,  where  nature  holds 
her  fiercest  conflicts,  was  it  not  meet 
that  the  conflict  of  human  races  should 
begin  ?  Where  will  the  final  triumph  of 
liberty  be  won  I 

HARPER'S  FERRY,  September,  1862. 

FRIDAY. — One  sister  is  on  the  island 
below,  the  others  have  gone  up  the  valley 
and  I  am  here  in  the  stationary  hospital 
on  Camp  Hill.  The  hospital  itself  is  a 
large  square  brick  house,  once  the  abode 
of  the  superintendent  of  the  arsenal  here. 
It  stands  on  the  summit  of  the  hill  com 
manding  a  view  of  the  ruined  town 
below,  of  the  rivers,  the  valley.  It  has 
been  well  riddled  by  shells,  and  yet  it  is 
possible  to  make  the  men  very  comfort 
able  in  it.  A  little  brick  house  near  has 
been  set  apart  for  the  reception  of  my 
stores,  and  for  my  own  especial  use. 
My  duty  will  be  chiefly  to  prepare  food 
for  the  sick  and  wounded,  as  ordered  by 
the  hospital  surgeon,  and  to  take  care  of 
such  patients  as  he  shall  deem  proper. 
He  has  received  me  very  kindly,  and  has 
done  much  to  help  me  in  the  beginning 
of  my  labors.  My  only  fear  is  of  a  su 
perintending  surgeon  who  is  soon  to  have 
his  headquarters  here.  It  is  said  that 
he  is  very  averse  to  women  nurses  in 
the  army,  also  that  he  is  a  very  haughty, 
stern  man,  of  whom  very  few  people 
like  to  ask  favors.  My  only  hope  is  that 
he  will  not  think  me  worth  noticing  at 
all.  When  he  comes  I  shall  cover  my 
face  with  my  big  bonnet  and  hide  in  my 
little  soup  house,  so  that  he  can  scarcely 
ever  see  me.  And  as  I  obey  orders  as 
strictly  as  if  I  were  an  enlisted  soldier, 
I  trust  that  I  may  never  incur  his  per 
sonal  displeasure.  If  I  don't,  surely  he 
will  let  me  stay  and  make  broth  and 
sago  for  my  boys ;  don't  you  think  that 
he  will,  mother  ? 

I  found  some  old  books  in  the  little  closet 
over  the  high  Virginia  mantel-shelf  this 
morning,  in  which  I  was  making  room 
for  some  of  my  stores.  One  was  a 


copy  of  "  Jefferson's  Notes  on  Virginia," 
which  I  have  glanced  over  with  a  strange 
interest.  It  is  said  that  there  are  chap 
ters  in  it  which  he  wrote  just  below  these 
windows,  seated  on  that  great  plateau 
of  stone  yonder  overhanging  the 'valley 
which  the  people  call  Jefferson's  Rock. 
I  believe  that  he  did.  I  have  copied 
what  he  wrote  as  he  sat  there,  for  it  is 
the  most  perfect  picture  of  the  scene 
which  I  now  see  from  this  window  that 
will  ever  he  written.  He  says :  "  The 
passage  of  the  Potomac  through  the 
Blue  Ridge  is  one  of  the  most  stupendous 
scenes  in  nature.  You  stand  on  a  very 
high  point  of  land.  On  your  right  comes 
the  Shenandoah,  having  ranged  along 
the  foot  of  the  mountain  for  an  hundred 
miles  to  seek  a  vent.  On  your  left  ap 
proaches  the  Potomac,  in  quest  of  a  pas 
sage  also.  In  the  moment  they  rush 
together  against  the  mountan,  rend  it 
asunder,  and  pass  off  to  the  sea.  But  the 
distant  finishing  which  Nature  has  given 
to  this  picture  is  a  true  contrast  to  the 
foreground.  It  is  as  placid  and  delight 
ful  as  that  is  savage  and  tremendous.  For 
the  mountain  being  cloven  asunder,  pre 
sents  to  your  eyes,  through  the  cleft,  a 
small  catch  of  smooth  horizon,  at  an  in 
finite  distance  in  the  plain  country,  in 
viting  you,  as  it  were,  from  the  riot  and 
tumult  roaring  around  to  pass  through 
the  breach  and  participate  of  the  calm 
below."  If  the  eyes  of  Jefferson  sought 
repose  on  this  far-off  "  catch "  of  blue 
horizon  when  the  tumult  and  riot  of  the 
elements  were  all  that  disturbed  his 
senses,  what  is  it  not  to  the  eyes  of 
one  weary  and  worn  with  the  bloody 
sights  of  human  war  ?  That  "  catch  of 
blue  "  is  this  moment  just  what  it  was 
that  day.  If  ever  I  step  to  the  window 
or  cross  the  hill  my  eyes  travel  on  to 
wards  its  rest.  Afar  off  in  that  peaceful 
blue  it  seems  as  if  I  caught  faint  glimpses 
of  the  hills  of  home.  If  there  comes  a 
moment  when  I  can  look  away  from  the 
suffering  and  sorrow  around  me,  all  I  can 
say  is,  "Yonder  lies  my  home."  It  is 
such  a  comfort  to  look  .at  the  getting- 
out  place  the  great  open  gate  of  the 
mountains,  and  think  that  some  time, 
when  my  work  is  done  here,  mother,  I 


A  WOMAN'S  RIGHT. 


157 


may  pass  through  it  and  go  home  to 
you. 

Never  did  rail  cars  reach  any  spot  with 
such  a  weird,  wild  cry.  In  a  dark  night 
the  sight  is  wonderful.  Afar  down  the 
river  you  catch  glimpses  of  the  great 
gleaming  eye  of  the  engine  through  the 
opening  and  closing  mountains.  Then  it 
seems  to  go  out  in  blackness,  when  sud 
denly,  with  a  piercing  cry.  it  shoots  from 
behind  yonder  precipice,  and,  vibrating 
between  it  and  the  river,  rushes  over  the 
great  bridge  and  into  the  little  town,  but 
only  in  another  moment  to  rush  through 
the  blackness  before  it,  on  into  the  moun 
tain  passes. 

It  seems  as  if  this  strange  place  was 
doomed  by  Nature  before  it  was  doomed 
by  man.  Jefferson  thinks  that  here  these 
two  rivers  were  dammed  by  the  Blue 
Ridge  till  they  formed  an  ocean  that  filled 
the  whole  valley — that  they  rose  till  they 
broke  over  the  spot  and  tore  the  moun 
tain  from  its  summit  to  its  base  to  make 
its  passage.  The  savage  piles  of  rock 
which  rise  and  topple  beside  each  river 
are  the  relics  of  the  disruption  and  avul 
sion  in  the  mighty  conflict.  I  tremble 
even  now  when  I  think  how  these  two 
rivers  might  rise  in  their  beds,  meet  in 
one  terrific  flood,  and  sweep  away  all 
life  in  their  awful  passage.  This  has 
happened.  In  the  black  night  no  sound 
was  heard  but  the  roar  of  the  flood  and 
the  crash  of  houses  and  the  cry  of  human 
beings  going  down  into  swift  destruction. 
Remembering  it,  this  scenery  is  awful  to 
me.  Often  I  see  it  touched  with  tender 
beauty.  But  the  suffusing  sunlight  on 
the  flood,  the  wild  flower  in  the  moun 


tain  cleft,  cannot  win  me  to  forget  its 
frightful  possibilities. 

SATURDAY. — Troops  are  coming  into 
the  valley  by  forced  marches.  I  saw 
a  regiment  come  toiling  up  the  hill 
this  afternoon.  As  I  knew  they  would 
stop  at  the  spring  by  the  road  to  fill 
their  canteens,  I  sent  two  contraband 
boys  down  with — buckets  they  call 
them  here — filled  with  coffee  and  a 
third  to  come  back  and  tell  me  the 
name  of  the  regiment.  It  was  Win's 
regiment.  I  was  not  surprised.  I  knew 
that  it  must  pass  through  with  others  be 
fore  long.  I  filled  my  hands  with  every 
thing  I  could  carry  and  rushed  down  to 
the  road.  You  know  that  I  saw  Win  many 
times  last  year,  but  have  never  seen  his 
regiment  on  the  march  before  since  I  saw 
it  go  so  proudly  through  Broadway.  That 
bright,  bright  flag !  If  you  could  see  how 
faded  and  riddled  it  is  to-day,  you  would 
be  proud  of  it,  mother.  And  the  boys  so 
fresh  and  young  that  morning — to-day 
ankle  deep  in  the  dust  of  the  road,  gray  as 
the  dust  under  their  feet  with  the  dust 
that  covered  them,  haggard  and  worn,  for 
they  had  marched  thirty  miles  since  they 
broke  camp.  They  stopped  just  long 
enough  to  drink,  to  fill  their  rusty  can 
teens,  or  little  black  coffee  pots,  then 
marched  on.  Win — I  could  scarcely  see 
him  for  dust — he  was  haggard  and  brown, 
but  he  had  the  old  smile  in  his  eyes,  our 
boy !  I  stuffed  his  haversack — I  filled  his 
canteen — I —  It  was  only  a  moment — 

Forward !  March !  was  the  cry. 

He  went  on — he  went  on. 

I  stood  in  the  road  alone. 


168 


EIRENB : 


CHAPTER  XVIL 


THE  ABMT  NTJBSB. 


"You  can't  tell  me  anything,  Fay, 
about  army  nurses.  I  object  to  all  of 
them,  and  I  don't  want  one  in  my  hos 
pitals.  I  wish  you  would  send  the  one 
who  has  installed  herself  here  a  polite 
request  to  leave." 

"Really,  De  Peyster,  I  can't  She 
comes  from  Church  Hospital,  New  York. 
She  is  one  of  the  Sisters  of  St.  John. 
There  is  a  whole  band  of  them  scattered 
through  the  Valley.  I  can't  meddle  with 
one  of  St.  John's  Sisters.  Besides,  this 
one  has  a  regular  commission  from  the 
Secretary  of  War,  and  it  would  not  do 
any  good  if  I  did  meddle ;  to  tell  the 
truth,  I  don't  want  to  do  so." 

"  Confound  the  Secretary  of  War. 
No  wonder  nothing  goes  right,  with 
both  Secretary  and  President  nosed 
around  by  old  women.  But  I  tell  you, 
Fay,  I  am  not  going  to  have  female 
nurses  imposed  upon  me,  Secretary  or 
no  Secretary.  This  nurse  shall  go,  and 
if  there's  a  row  about  it,  I'll  resign." 

"  Oh  no,  you  wouldn't;  your  heart  is 
in  the  army,  and  you  would  not  let  so 
small  an  object  as  a  female  nurse  drive 
you  out  of  itl  Do  you  know,  De  Pey 
ster,  I  think  you  are  prejudiced?  I  share 
your  opinion  concerning  the  class;  but 
come,  now,  just  lay  your  finger  on  one 
atom  of  harm  that  this  Sister  Eirene  has 
ever  done,  and  I  will  lay  mine  on  a 
hundred  good  and  blessed  things  that 
she  does  every  day." 

"  You  will !  Spare  me.  I  don't  ob 
ject  to  her  personally.  I  don't  know 
who  she  is,  and  don't  care.  I  never 
heard  her  speak.  I  never  spoke  to  her, 
I  never  saw  her  face,  and  never  expect 
to,  inside  of  that  tunnel  of  a  bonnet  that 
she  wears.  I  object  to  her  on  principle. 
A  hospital  full  of  men  is  no  place  for  a 
woman.  I  saw  no  end  of  mischief  come 
from  it  in  Alexandria." 


"Not  from  good  women  nurses,"  said 
Dr.  Fay ;  "  you  saw  mischief  come  from 
women  who  were  not  nurses  at  all,  al 
though  they  pretended  to  be, — women 
who  came  there  in  f}ne  array  to  beguile 
the  officers,  and  with  them  to  drink  up 
the  wine  which  the  Sanitary  Commission 
had  sent  to  the  patients.  But  I  saw 
some  good  devoted  nurses  even  in  Alex 
andria,  and  perfect  ladies  they  were,  too." 

"  Well,  perhaps  you  did,  but  where 
you  saw  one  such,  you  saw  a  dozen  of 
the  other  sort.  Any  way,  I  did.  Even 
your  goodies  don't  know  anything ;  they 
have  killed  more  men  than  ever  wounds 
did,  feeding  them  with  candy  and  cake. 
I  came  into  the  ward  one  day,  and  found 
one  administering  peanuts  to  a  man  just 
out  of  typhoid  fever.  I  tell  you,  Fay, 
there  is  not  more  than  one  woman  in  a 
hundred  who  has  sense  and  judgment 
enough  to  be  an  efficient  nurse,  to  say 
nothing  of  those  who  play  the  devil  with 
their  actions." 

"  I  admit  all  that  you  say  of  many,  but 
I  know  more  of  whom  it  is  not  true,  and 
this  Sister  Eirene  is  one  of  them.  I  tell 
you,  De  Peyster,  there  is  no  end  to  the 
good  that  she  does.  And  she  is  never 
obtrusive,  never  in  the  way ;  she  knows 
when  to  come  into  the  ward  and  when 
to  go  out  of  it;  she  has  the  knack  of  doing 
the  right  thing  in  the  right  time  and 
place, — and  such  broths  and  soups  and 
sago  as  she  does  make  in  the  little  house 
out  yonder !  My !  when  I  sat  down  to 
a  bowl  with  parsely  in  it,  I  thought  I 
was  at  home  again." 

"  Oh  I  so  she  feeds  you,  does  she  ?  I 
see  why  you  are  so  anxious  to  have  her 
stay.  The  old  story  1  the  female  nurse 
feasting  the  officers  instead  of  nursing 
the  men  1  You  rascal,  you  make  me  want 
a  bowl  of  soup  myself.  Hard-tack  and 
pork  and  army  cooking  have  made  me 
feel  like  a  cannibal."  And  Pierre  re- 


A  WOMAN'S  RIGHT. 


159 


membered  ruefully  the  delicious  soups 
served  every  day  in  the  week  in  De 
Peyster  house,  for  which  he  had  an  es 
pecial  liking. 

"  If  she  makes  good  soup  she  can 
stay,"  he  said.  "But  don't  mistake  me, 
Fay,  I  object  to  female  nurses  on  princi 
ple.  You  may  convince  me  that  she  is 
a  soup  maker,  but  you  cannot  that  she 
is  a  nurse.  Select  the  most  troublesome 
men  in  the  ward  that  you  would  about 
as  lief  have  die  as  not,  and  let  her  take 
care  of  them  and  kill  them.  But  bring 
me  a  bowl  of  soup  the  first  time  you 
have  a  chance,  without  saying  that  it  is 
for  me.  I  could  eat  some  soup  with 
parsely  in  it;  but  remember  I  don't 
believe  in  your  female  nurses." 

Eirene  heard  this  conversation  through 
the  thin  board  partition  which  separated 
the  little  linen-room  in  which  she  was 
from  the  office  where  the  two  surgeons 
sat.  She  drew  her  bonnet  closer  about 
her  ears  to  shut  out  the  sounds,  and 
went  on  rolling  the  bandages  which  she 
knew  these  same  surgeons  would  want 
to  use  before  another  hour.  They  went 
out  presently,  and  she  was  left  alone 
with  her  work  and  her  meditations. 

"  I  don't  know  why  I  should  take  it  so 
much  to  heart,"  she  wrote  that  evening 
in  the  journal  for  her  mother,  as  she  sat 
before  the  wide  hearth  in  the  little  Vir 
ginia  house,  stirring  her  sago  for  evening 
use  as  it  simmered  in  two  iron  pots  over 
the  fire  on  the  hearth,  writing  with  her 
pencil  in  the  little  book  on  her  knee  in 
between.  "  Why  should  I  feel  it  so 
keenly,"  she  wrote,  "  the  opinion  of  this 
gentleman,  who  is  a  stranger  to  me, 
unless  a  desire  for  personal  approbation 
is  mixed  with  my  desire  to  do  good  ?  I 
can  do  my  duty  no  less  if  I  am  not  ap 
proved.  Still,  the  pain  is  something 
more  than  a  personal  one.  It  hurts  me 
to  hear  women  spoken  of  in  such  a  way, 
especially  a  class  of  women  whose  devo 
tion  to  duty  should  lift  them  above  all 
reproach.  It  shows  me  how  women 
harm  each  other,  how  one  woman,  false 
to  her  higher  womanhood,  can  cast  re 
proach  upon  an  entire  class  in  which  each 
one  is  humbly  striving  to  do  the  work 
their  hands  find  to  do.  And  so  some  of 


the  poor  men  are  to  be  selected  for  me 
1  to  kill '  "  (and  here  the  pencil  dug  a  little 
bitterly) ;  "  there  is  nothing  in  my  broth 
or  sago  to  kill  any  one ;  they  are  very 
nourishing"  (and  here  the  pencil  rose 
proud  and  stately).  "  I  am  not  learned,  I 
know ;  but  I  have  studied  faithfully  the 
laws  of  life  and  of  health,  and  so  far  as  I 
attempt  to  do  a  thing,  I  know  how  to  do 
it.  I  know  how  to  take  care  of  my  boys" 
(with  an  air  of  maternity).  "  I  think  that 
I  don't  like  this  Dr.  De  Peyster.  I  am 
very  sure  that  I  do  not.  He  has  a  way  not 
at  all  American,  as  if  he  was  born  to 
rule,  and  all  around  him  were  his  subjects. 
I  dislike  him  the  most  when  he  walks 
through  the  ward,  and  all  the  lame  sol 
diers  and  all  the  sick  soldiers  who  can 
rise  have  to  stand  up  during  the  entire 
time  that  he  is  in  the  room.  Of  course, 
respect  is  due  to  an  officer.  After  they 
have  risen  and  bowed,  it  seems  to  me,  if 
he  were  really  kind-hearted,  he  would  tell 
them  to  sit  down.  But  no,  he  don't;  he 
lets  them  stand  as  long  as  he  is  in  the 
room.  It  is  cruel.  I  shall  never  enter  a 
ward  when  I  know  that  he  is  in  it;  I 
would  rather  not  meet  a  gentleman  who 
thinks  me  out  of  my  place,  and  to  whom 
I  am  an  object  of  contempt.  I  never 
did  but  once,  that  was  before  I  knew 
that  he  had  arrived.  Then  as  he  march 
ed  down  the  ward,  so  grand  and  stately, 
there  was  something  about  him  which  re 
minded  me  of  Mrs.  Stuyvesant— it  even 
seemed  as  if  he  looked  like  her.  Very 
likely  I  fancied  it  because  his  name  is  De 
Peyster,  the  name  on  the  door  of  her 
house — a  name  I  liked  the  first  time  that 
I  saw  it^-that  was  in  Trinity  church-yard. 
I  have  never  glanced  at  him  since,  and 
feel  as  if  I  would  never  dare  to,  or  want 
to  again.  I  will  try  to  do  my  duty  even 
more  faithfully.  The  army  will  soon 
move  on,  these  fine  surgeons  will  go,  and 
then  you,  left  behind,  will  need  me,  my 
poor  boys."  Here  the  tears  began  to 
drop  at  the  thought  that  her  boys  would 
have  no  one  much  wiser  than  herself  to 
take  care  of  them.  She  shut  her  little 
book,  and  leaning  forward  slowly  stirred 
the  sago  bubbling  over  the  low  fire.  This 
was  the  picture  that  Pierre  De  Peyster 
saw  through  the  open  window.  He  was 


160 


EIRENE : 


coming  from  the  tent  hospital,  where  he 
had  just  amputated  a  gangrened  limb. 
He  had  tried  hard  to  save  it,  tried  hard 
to  send  the  young  man  who  owned  it  un- 
maimed  back  to  mother  and  wife  ;  but  it 
had  been  impossible.  Cruel  as  Eirene 
thought  him,  punctilious  and  exacting  as 
he  was  in  official  etiquette,  he  was  un 
mindful  of  no  human  being's  pain.  "  Will 
this  butchery  never  cease,"  he  said  de 
jectedly,  with  the  smell  of  blood  and  the 
cry  of  anguish  still  lingering  with  him. 
Just  then  looking  up,  he  noticed  a  single 
white  half-blown  rose  looking  forth  un 
sullied  and  fragrant  in  the  evening  air, 
the  only  one  amid  a  cluster  of  unopened 
buds  on  a  bush,  near  the  open  window 
of  a  little  old  brick  house. 

"  I  will  send  it  to  Corna,"  he  said,  with 
the  thought  coming  instantly  into  his 
mind,  "what  man  but  I  would  have  only 
his  sister  to  send  it  to  ?"  and  stepping  to 
ward  the  bush  he  glanced  through  the 
low  open  window,  and  for  an  instant 
stirred,  not  but  gazed.  He  had  heard 
often  enough  of  Sister  Eirene's  soup 
house,  but  had  never  troubled  himself  to 
inquire  which  of  the  numerous  little 
Virginia  houses  scattered  about  the  hill 
it  might  be. 

Was  this  the  nurse?  Yes,  for  there 
was  the  tunnel  bonnet  which  he  detest 
ed  hanging  at  the  back  of  her  chair. 
Sister  Eirene  slowly  stirred  the  sago 
simmering  over  the  fire.  Then  she  laid 
her  head  upon  the  back  of  the  chair,  and 
seemed  to  watch  it.  She  folded  her  arms, 
and  the  little  book  on  her  lap  slipped 
upon  the  floor.  The  sun,  dropping  down 
the  valley,  shone  through  the  opposite 
window,  and  its  splendor  fell  upon  her 
face.  Its  glow  was  welcome  to  her,  she 
shut  her  eyes  and  basked  in  it.  It  was 
the  same  sun  which  shone  through  the 
rafters  of  the  old  barn  years  and  years 
before,  and  this  the  same  face  which  it 
shone  upon — a  young  girl's  then,  a 
woman's  now.  And  this  the  same  sun 
which  glinted  downward,  through  the 
waving  boughs  and  illuminated  windows 
of  old  Trinity,  upon  the  woman's  face  in 
the  aisle,  and  this  was  she — yes  I  A  look 
of  bewilderment,  then  of  recognition, 
passed  over  Pierre  De  Peyster's  features 


as  he  gazed.  The  hair  waving  out  from 
under  the  close  muslin  cap  was  gold  in 
the  sun ;  the  face,  worn  and  pallid  in  an 
ordinary  light,  in  the  radiance  which 
touched  it  now,  wore  the  halo  of  a  saint. 
"  MY  WIFE,"  said  the  soul  of  the  man, 
though  his  lips  spoke  not.  With  a 
trembling  hand  he  gathered  the  white 
rose  and  went  on. 

At  last  he  had  seen  the  face  of  her  for 
whom  till  now  his  whole  life  had  been  a 
fruitless  quest. 

The  next  morning  Eirene  found  upon 
her  table  in  the  ward  an  envelope  on 
which  was  written:  "For  the  Sister  Ei 
rene."  She  opened  it,  saw  a  wilted 
white  rose,  nothing  else.  She  thought 
that  some  lame  soldier  hobbling  about 
had  gathered  it  for  her,  and  laid  it  here 
a  token  of  his  gratitude.  She  looked  up 
on  it  with  a  tender  smile,  and  cutting 
out  the  superscription  placed  it  over  the 
rose  in  a  book  rilled  with  souvenirs  of 
battle-fields,  of  soldier's  graves,  and  of 
her  life  in  Virginia. 

About  noon 'Dr.  Fay  appeared  in  the 
little  office  of  Dr.  De  Peyster  with  a 
bowl  of  fragrant  broth  in  his  hand. 

"  Here,  you  scamp,"  he  said,  "  you 
don't  deserve  this  from  the  one  who 
made  it ;  but  I  begged  it  without  telling 
whom  it  was  for.  May  it  refresh  you 
mightily,  and  modify  your  prejudices 
against  women  nurses." 

Pierre  received  it  with  a  single  solemn, 
"Thank  you."  He  waited  till  he  was 
alone,  and  then  sat  down  to  it  as  if  it 
were  a  sacrament.  Never  before  had  he 
tasted  such  a  bowl  of  broth  as  that. 

At  midnight  Eirene  walked  the  ward 
alone.  The  men-nurses,  worn  out  by 
the  excessive  labor  of  many  days,  had  re 
tired  for  a  little  rest  while  she  watched. 
With  noiseless  steps  she  moved  to  and 
fro — here  pausing  to  adjust  a  pillow  for 
some  aching  head;  here  to  administer 
medicine  or  cordial;  here  to  utter  some 
word  of  faith  or  cheer.  Many  a  human 
heart,  fluttering  to  death  in  a  wounded 
body,  thanked  God  for  her  ministry,  and 
that  he  was  not  left  to  die  alone.  Many 
mournful  eyes,  longing  for  sight  of  wife 
or  mother,  called  her  toward  them  with 
wistful  entreaty,  and  silent  tears  and 


A  WOMAN'S  EIGHT. 


161 


broken  voices  blessed  and  thanked  the 
woman's  love  which  in  its  unselfish  de 
votion  made  each  man  a  brother. 

Eirene's  lips  quivered  as  she  walked. 
Here  were  men  with  the  damp  of  death 
upon  their  faces  to  whose  mothers  and 
wives  she  had  written  words  of  hope 
and  consolation.  Those  mothers  and 
wives  had  written  to  her  till  she  had 
made  their  love  and  sorrow  her  own. 
How  she  had  watched  and  nourished 
their  wounded  ones,  how  she  had  hoped 
for  them,  what  stories  she  had  told  them 
of  their  coming  convalesence,  of  their 
furloughs,  of  their  visits  home,  of  the 
glad  and  prosperous  years  afar  on !  And 
yet  in  the  face  of  her  love,  and  care,  and 
prayers,  they  were  dying !  Only  another 
morning  and  she  would  see  the  stretcher 
with  its  dead  body  borne  out  to  the  half- 
made  grave  on  the  open  hill.  A  long 
sigh  of  anguish  arose  from  her  heart ;  but 
the  suppressed  lips  shut  upon  it  before  it 
escaped.  Silence,  patience,  and  self-re 
straint,  she  owed  them  all  to  the  suffer 
ers  around  her.  And  her  heart  swelled 
with  gratitude  that  God  in  his  love  per 
mitted  her  to  minister  to  her  brethren. 
"  It  might  have  been  so  different  if  I  had 
had  my  own  selfish  way,"  said  the  faith 
ful  heart.  "  God  knew  best.  He  saved 
me  from  myself,  and  from  a  life  of  sel 
fishness.  In  his  mercy  He  permits  me  to 
comfort  the  afflicted,  and  to  bind  up  the 
wounds  of  those  who  have  fallen." 

These  thoughts,  with  her  surroundings, 
the  midnight,  the  long  dim  ward  filled 
with  wounded  and  dying  men,  seemed 
to  lift  her  into  a  state  of  exaltation.  As 
she  passed  the  last  couch,  she  drew  the 
curtain  which  covered  the  window  at  the 
end  of  the  ward,  and  for  a  moment  stood 
transfixed  with  what  she  saw.  They 
who  have  never  seen  the  full  moon  sus-. 
pended  above  the  Blue  Ridge  in  Sep 
tember  have  missed  one  of  the  consum 
mate  sights  of  nature.  Tens  of  thou 
sands  of  brave  men,  could  they  see  this 
page,  would  bear  me  witness  that  the 
earth  never  bore  more  transcendent 
nights  and  days  than  those  which  trail 
ed  their  splendor  along  the  Valley  of 
Virginia,  through  the  September  of  1862. 
The  great  mountains  rose  on  either  side 


in  sombre  shadow.  The  two  rivers, 
pouring  down  the  valley,  rushed  togeth 
er  at  their  feet. 

Above  their  heads,  out  of  the  heaven's 
unfathomable  blue,  the  moon  hung  a 
globe  of  flame,  flooding  the  embattled  val 
ley  with  a  mellow  half-day,  like  that  in 
which  it  lies  in  the  sun's  eclipse. 
Around  the  base  of  the  hill,  from  whose 
summit  Eirene  looked,  clung  the  ruins 
of  the  fated  little  town.  Parching  on  a 
side  precipice,  one  solitary  church  which 
both  armies  had  spared  lifted  up  its  glit 
tering  cross  in  mid  air.  Right  before 
her  on  the  hill-top  was  the  old  grave 
yard  of  the  natives,  while  in  every  direc 
tion,  running  far  down  its  sides,  were  the 
new  half-covered  graves  of  dead  soldiers. 
Between  the  house  and  the  grave-yard 
a  solitary  sentinel  paced.  From  the  side 
hill  she  could  hear  the  steps  of  other  sen 
tinels,  and  hear  their  solemn  challenge 
breaking  the  silence.  Above  her,  along 
the  heights  of  the  Shenandoah,  a  vast  city 
of  white  tents  gleamed  in  the  moonlight. 
Below,  on  the  great  bridge  spanning  the 
rivers,  she  caught  the  glitter  of  bayonets, 
then  the  slow  tramp,  tramp  of  marching 
men.  Another  regiment  coming,  and 
another  I  a  forced  midnight  march !  the 
men  were  coming  from  below  to  rein 
force  the  men  lying  on  their  bayonets 
on  Bolivar  Heights.  Her  heart  fluttered 
with  a  sickening  sensation,  as  she  saw 
them  drawing  nearer,  nearer,  the  heavy 
laden,  weary,  marching  men.  Silently, 
solemnly  on  they  came  beneath  the  mid 
night  sky,  beneath  the  very  window 
where  the  stood. 

"  A  battle  to-morrow  !  Win  is  up  the 
valley;  the  end  nears,"  she  said  with  a 
shudder  as  she  dropped  the  curtain  and 
turned  back.  Another  moment  and  she 
walked  the  ward  again,  and  no  eye  saw 
the  deepened  pallor  of  her  face.  Yet 
amid  all  the  sickening  fear  in  her  heart 
was  born  an  unspeakable  gratitude,  that 
she  was  where  she  was. 

"  0,  to  think  that  God  has  spared  me," 
she  said,  "  for  the  sake  of  others.  When 
I  prayed  that  it  might  be  taken,  how 
could  I  know  that  my  life  could  ever 
take  on  so  rich  a  value;  it  seemed  to  me 
emptied  of  all  joy  and  worthless.  0, 


162 


EIRKNE : 


my  boys!"  cried  her  heart,  and  she 
looked  up  and  down  on  every  couch  as 
if  each  man  on  it  were  her  son.  "  To 
think  that  God  lets  me  live  for  you. 
And  to  think  what  you  are — the  rough 
est,  the  rudest!  Never  by  word,  or 
look,  or  deed  have  one  of  you  ever  made 
me  feel  that  I  overstepped  my  place  in 
serving  you.  Had  I  been  born  a  queen 
you  could  not  have  been  more  reverent 
than  you  have  been  to  the  simple  woman 
hood  that  seeks  to  serve  you  ;  never  by 
word  or  look  have  you  made  me  regret 


that  I  am  here.  I  never  heard  but  one 
such  word,  and  that  was  the  surgeon's. 
He  is  proud  and  rich — he  does  not  know 
what  your  life  is  or  mine !  How  can  he 
know  that  my  place  is  here  with  you 
who  die  for  our  country.  Win!  To 
morrow  ! " 

Whose  eyes  will  follow  these  lines  who 
saw  those  days  in  the  Valley  of  Virginia! 
How  our  lines  grew  less  and  less.  Win 
chester,  Martinsburg,  Charlestown,  Bo 
livar,  one  by  one  possessed  by  the  foe 


A  WOMAN'S  RIGHT. 


163 


CHAPTER  XVIII. 


EIBENE'S  DIARY. — TEE  BUBBEKDEB  OF  MARYLAND 
HEIGHTS  AND  BATTLE  OF  HABPEB'8  FEBBY. 

SEPTEMBER,  1862. — We  had  been  ex 
pecting  to  hear  the  rebel  guns  for  a 
week.  From  the  moment  that  we 
learned  certainly  that  the  Confederates 
were  in  possession  of  Frederick;  that 
they  had  destroyed  the  railroad  bridge 
at  Monocacy ;  that  they  had  entirely 
surrounded  us,  we  knew  that  they 
were  only  awaiting  their  own  con 
venience  to  attack  Maryland  Heights. 
"  If  we  can  only  keep  the  Heights,"  we 
said,  as  we  looked  with  anxious  eyes  to 
this  green  fastness  above  us,  "if  we  can 
only  keep  the  Heights,  we  are  safe."  We 
could  not  forget  that  Jackson  said  when 
last  here,  "  Give  me  Maryland  Heights 
and  I  will  defy  the  world." 

Of* what  avail  would  be  the  force  in 
battle-line  on  Bolivar  Heights,  three 
miles  away ;  of  the  array  of  infantry 
lining  the  road  to  Charlestown ;  the 
earth-works,  the  rifle  pits,  the  batteries — 
of  what  avail  all,  if  from  the  other  side 
Jackson  ascended  Maryland  Heights  and 
turned  our  own  guns  against  us ! 

I  had  just  given  the  boys  their  break 
fast  last  Saturday  morning,  September 
13,  when  the  quick,  cruel  ring  of  mus 
ketry  cutting  the  air  made  them  start  up 
in  their  beds.  I  ran  out  upon  the  hill  in 
the  rear  of  the  hospital  overlooking  the 
town.  On  one  side  was  the  Shenandoah 
bound  by  Loudon  Heights,  on  the  other 
the  Potomac,  with  the  Heights  of  Mary 
land,  a  high,  green  precipitous  wall, 
towering  above  its  opposite  shore. 

Jackson  had  come ;  come  to  the  only 
spot  where  he  could  effectually  besiege 
our  stronghold.  I  strained  my  eyes 
through  the  blue  of  that  transcendent 
morning  to  the  sunlit  woods  upon  the 
mountain-top  echoing  with  death.  Vol 
ley  after  volley  shivered  the  air,  and  with 
it  the  bodies  of  men.  At  first  the  report 


was  far  up  on  the  very  mountain-sum 
mit,  then  it  drew  nearer,  rattling  louder, 
and  I  knew  that  the  enemy  were  ad 
vancing.  I  heard  their  dreadful  war  cry 
and  caught  the  flash  of  their  bayonets 
piercing  the  green  woods. 

Suddenly  the  cry  grew  fainter,  the  re 
sounding  guns  seemed  muffled  in  the 
thicket,  and  a  loud  shout  from  the 
soldiers  of  the  Republic  told  that  they 
were  driving  back  the  foe.  The  sounds 
of  battle  palpitated  to  and  fro,  the  double 
line  of  bayonets  glanced  advancing,  re 
treating,  while  I  listened  with  suspended 
breath.  The  fight  on  the  mountains  was 
to  decide  our  fate.  Below  the  artillerists 
were  at  work.  The  great  guns  pointed 
upward.  Shells  screamed  and  hissed, 
tearing  the  green  woods,  poisoning  the 
pure  ether  with  sulphurous  smoke. 
Ambulances  began  to  wind  down  the 
steep  mountain  road  with  their  freight 
of  wounded.  Many  of  these  brave 
soldiers  were  so  shattered  that  they 
could  only  be  carried  on  blankets,  and 
the  sad  procession  was  swelled  by  the 
bodies  of  two  of  our  artillerists  shattered 
to  death  at  their  guns. 

Traitors  gathered  upon  the  crest  of 
Camp  Hill  to  watch  the  fight;  cravens 
squatted  on  stones  and  stood  in  groups, 
with  their  hands  in  their  pockets,  esti 
mating  the  probabilities  of  the  battle. 

"  The  Yankees  can  never  lick  our  boys, 
'taint  no  use  tryin' ;  we'll  get  the  hill,  of 
course  we  will.  Don't  our  boys  go 
where  they  have  a  mind  to  ?  Didn't 
they  march  into  Maryland;  who  hin 
dered  ?  Haven't  they  walked  into  Penn 
sylvania  ?  Yankees  can't  stop  'em  1 " 
they  said.  Beside  these  creatures  stood 
women,  watching,  trembling  for  the 
safety  of  their  homes ;  little  children 
frightened  by  the  fight;  young  girls  to 
whom  the  fortunes  of  war  had  given 
temporary  abode  in  this  besieged  spot; 


164 


EIRENE : 


loyal  old  men  who  sat  lamenting  over 
the  troubles  of  their  country. 

It  was  just  noon  when  the  sudden 
cessation  of  the  musketry  firing  called 
me  away  from  my  work  to  the  open 
window.  The  batteries  were  still  send 
ing  shells  thick  and  fast  into  the  woods; 
the  men  at  their  guns  seemed  as  eager 
as  ever,  when  for  the  first  time  in  my 
life  I  doubted  the  evidence  of  my  senses. 
Without  warning  the  firing  suddenly 
ceased.  Tents  were  struck.  Cannon 
were  spiked  and  sent  tumbling  down 
the  mountain  gorge.  Bayonets  flashed 
out  from  the  woods;  long  columns  of 
men  began  moving  down  the  mountain 
defile.  0,  saddest,  most  disgraceful  sight 
of  all,  the  flag  which  waved  from  that 
mountain  top,  our  signal  of  freedom  and 
hope,  they  tore  it  down  1 

"  They  have  given  up  the  mountain  1 
They  have  given  up  the  mountain  1 " 
rang  from  mouth  to  mouth  in  every  ac 
cent  of  terror,  joy,  and  despair. 

In  fifteen  minutes  Maryland  Heights 
were  deserted,  dumb.  The  gleaming 
tents  were  prone,  the  exultant  banners 
gone.  Far  down  the  mountain  side  our 
hurrying  hosts  were  flying  from  the  spot, 
which  at  the  utmost  cost  of  life  they 
should  have  defended.  Already  the 
pontoon  bridge  was  black  with  returning 
thousands.  The  street  was  alive  with 
the  wildest  excitement.  Men,  women, 
and  children  were  running  in  every 
direction,  with  only  one  sentence  on 
their  tongue. 

"  The  Heights  are  surrendered !  " 

Three  thousand  soldiers  were  march 
ing  back  in  disgrace  and  defeat.  As 
they  came  wearily  on,  they  heard  from 
every  direction: 

"  Is  this  the  way  you  defend  us?  " 

"Do  you  want  women  and  children 
killed  in  their  homes  ?  " 

From  the  ranks  came  one  curse,  long 
and  deep,  "  If  we  had  not  had  a  traitor 
for  a  leader,  we  should  not  have  surren 
dered  !  " 

In  less  than  an  hour  after,  quick  and 
sharp  from  the  lower  ridge  of  Maryland 
Heights  sounded  the  enemies'  rifles. 
Their  cannon  were  not  ready,  but  they 
came  and  fired  volley  after  volley  down 


into  the  narrow  streets  of  the  town,  upon 
unarmed  citizens,  upon  women  and  chil 
dren.  Thus  the  Southern  chivalry  began 
their  work.  We  knew  that  they  would 
erect  their  batteries  in  the  night,  that  the 
Sabbath  morning  would  dawn  with  the 
missiles  of  death  pouring  down  upon  us 
from  each  side,  from  both  mountain  tops. 

It  dawned,  that  memorable  Sabbath 
morning,  September  14,  1862,  in  super 
lative  splendor.  Sunshine,  balm,  and 
beauty  suffused  the  august  mountains 
and  the  blue,  ether  which  ensphered  us. ' 
All  were  unheeded  while  we  awaited 
the  terrors  of  the  day.  We  had  lost  the 
Heights.  Cowardice  or  treason  had  caus 
ed  the  surrender  of  our  only  stronghold 
of  defence.  All  night  the  enemy  had 
been  erecting  batteries  on  the  hills  of 
Maryland  and  the  heights  of  London. 
We  were  surrounded.  There  was  no 
corner  of  safety  for  unarmed  men,  for 
women  or  children,  or  for  the  sick  or 
wounded.  They  could  do  nothing  but 
look  toward  the  frowning  mountain 
walls  uprising  on  either  side  and  await 
the  storm  of  fire  about  to  burst  from 
their  summits.  . 

Through  that  long,  azure-golden  morn 
ing — a  morning  so  absolutely  perfect  in 
the  blending  of  its  elements,  in  its  fusion 
of  fragrance,  light,  and  color,  that  it  can 
never  die  out  of  my  consciousness,  I  sat 
by  this  open  window  making  bandages. 
Directly  before  me  across  the  Shenandoah 
towered  the  London  mountain.  Where 
the  great  trees  had  fallen  on  its  summit  I 
knew  that  the  enemy  was  at  work 
ranging  his  batteries.  The  red  flags  of 
our  hospitals,  hoisted  high  above  their 
chimneys  streamed  toward  this  foe  im 
ploring  mercy  for  our  sick  and  wounded 
ones.  The  stony  streets  of  Camp  Hill 
throbbed  with  unwonted  life.  Many 
soldiers  were  hurrying  to  and  from  the 
hillside  spring  with  their  black  coffee 
kettles,  eager  to  get  their  day's  supply 
of  fresh  water  before  the  bombshells 
grew  thicker  in  the  air.  Many  strangers, 
refugees  from  Martinsburg  and  Winches 
ter,  paced  up  and  down  the  street. 
Citizens  at  the  corners  discussed  the 
probabilities  of  the  day  with  troubled 
faces.  Young  girls  and  matrons  toiled 


A  WOMAN'S  RIGHT. 


up  the  steep  Camp  Hill  side  to  our  hos 
pital  laden  with  baskets  of  delicacies, 
mindful  of  the  suffering  soldier  amid  all 
their  fears.  Poor  contrabands  stood  in 
groups  talking  in  incoherent  terror  of 
Jackson,  and  of  the  certainty  of  their 
being  "  cotched  and  sold  down  South." 
In  a  high  yard  opposite  a  company  of  lit 
tle  children  were  rolling  in  the  grass  amid 
the  late-blooming  flowers,  utterly  un 
conscious  of  the  impending  storm  about 
to  burst  upon  their  innocent  heads. 
The  atmosphere  was  pierced  with  the 
deep  trill  of  insect  melody.  Golden 
butterflies  flickered  by  me  on  flame-like 
wings.  The  thistle  down  sailed  on 
through  seas  of  sunshine.  The  spider 
spun  his  web  in  the  tree  beside  my 
window.  The  roll  of  the  rivers  rhymed 
with  the  music  of  the  air.  Nature 
rested  in  deep  content.  The  day,  se 
rene  enough  for  Paradise,  murmured, 
"  Peace."  God  from  the  benign  heavens 
said,  "  IT  is  MY  SABBATH." 

Whiz,  whir,  hiss,  roar,  bang,  crash, 
smash ! 

Helpless  men  started  in  their  beds. 
The  house  shook  to  its  foundations. 
Heaven  and  earth  seemed  to  collapse. 
The  deafening  roar  rolling  back  to  the 
mountains  died  in  the  deeper  roar  burst 
ing  from  their  summits.  All  the  rebel 
batteries  opened  on  us  at  once.  Those 
on  Loudon  faced  us,  and  our  hospitals 
were  under  their  heaviest  fire.  The 
shock  of  the  tremendous  cannon  near 
the  house  sent  me  off  my  chair,  in  spite 
of  my  aspiration  after  a  sublime  courage. 
I  am  not  a  hero.  I  wish  that  I  were. 
It  is  extremely  mortifying  upon  a  stupen 
dous  occasion  to  find  oneself  unequal  to 
its  sublimity.  I  was  pervaded  with 
horror  even  more  than  with  fright.  The 
profanation  of  man  seemed  awful.  God's 
Sabbath,  the  divine  repose  of  nature, 
invaded,  outraged  by  the  impotent  fury 
of  men.  I  am  afraid  of  bombshells.  lam 
more  afraid  of  them  now  than  I  was 
before  I  heard  or  felt  their  sulphurous 
current  hissing  near  my  very  head.  If 
there  is  a  sound  purely  fiendish  this  side 
of  the  region  of  the  lost,  it  is  the  scream 
and  shriek  of  a  bombshell.  No  matter 
how  many  tear  the  air,  each  demon  of  a 


shell  persists  in  a  diabolical  individuality 
of  its  own,  and  refuses  to  hiss  or  shriek 
precisely  like  any  one  of  its  neighbors. 

I  suffered  most  through  my  imagina 
tion.  Each  dreadful  thing  that  tore  the 
air  I  thought  must  burst  into  the  room 
and  take  off  the  head  of  one  of  my  boys. 
They  poured  into  the  garden  beside  us, 
they  struck  the  pavement  before  us,  they 
tore  up  the  earth  beneath  us,  they  threw 
the  sacred  soil  upon  the  very  beds  of  our 
wounded,  but  they  did  not  hit  us.  0, 
futile  rebel  shells,  what  rare  restraining 
angel  withheld  your  fire  and  deadened 
your  destruction  beneath  the  eaves  of 
our  lintel ! 

Two  hours !  and  I  had  grown  so  ac 
customed  to  this  unwonted  thunder  that 
I  was  able  to  go  from  cot  to  cot  as  if  no 
battle  were  going  on.  Another  hour, 
and  I  had  nearly  ceased  to  be  conscious 
of  it  amid  the  newly  wounded,  moaning 
for  succor  in  the  ward. 

How  royally  that  day  died.  How  su 
premely  nature  asserted  her  divinity 
high  above  the  roar  and  smoke  of  battle 
in  a  holy  hush  of  twilight,  which  man 
could  neither  reach  nor  destroy.  I  saw 
it  and  rested  in  it  for  a  single  moment, 
as  I  turned  from  the  smell  of  human 
blood  to  the  open  window  for  air.  Then 
faint  from  South  Mountain  came  the 
muffled  roar  of  distant  artillery.  Then 
nearer,  nearer,  and  I  knew  that  it  was 
the  thunder  of  another  battle  beyond  the 
hills.  It  is  Franklin !  It  is  Sumner !  It 
is  McClellan  !  They  are  coming  to  our 
help  1  If  we  can  hold  out  two  hours 
longer,  one  of  them  must  come  to  our 
aid,  and  we  shall  be  saved. 

It  was  night,  no  helper  had  come.' 
From  the  moment  in  which  Maryland 
Heights  were  lost,  we  knew  that  the  dis 
graceful  penalty  would  be  surrender, 
unless  reinforcements  saved  us  from  such 
a  hapless  fate.  It  was  the  night  of  the 
second  day  and  no  helper  had  come.  At 
dark  the  cannonading  ceased  and  the  in 
fantry  fight  began.  The  enemy  tried  to 
storm  the  breastworks  at  Bolivar,  but 
were  repulsed  by  our  brave  boys.  Quick 
and  sharp  through  the  night  we  heard 
the  crack  and  rattle  of  the  musketry.  It 
was  then,  under  the  protecting  stars 


166 


EIRENE : 


wrapped  in  protecting  darkness,  that  I 
watched  nearly  three  thousand  of  our 
cavalrymen  ride  swiftly  away  down  the 
rocky  gorge  out  into  the  night,  resolved 
to  cut  their  way  through  the  enemy's 
lines  at  any  hazard,  rather  than  stay  to 
surrender  their  swords  to  traitors.  "  Let 
us  cut  our  way  through,  let  us  fight  our 
way  out,"  was  the  utterance  of  each  one. 
0,  brave  men,  I  can  never  forget  you,  nor 
that  moment!  The  dim  lights  of  the  hos 
pital  flickered  out  upon  their  faces  white 
and  resolute,  as  they  sat  in  their  saddles 
holding  the  reins  of  their  restless  horses. 
I  lifted  to  Captain  M.  the  brace  of  pistols 
which  a  few  hours  before  he  had  com 
mitted  to  my  keeping,  and  as  I  saw  what 
a  dauntless  face  he  turned  toward  the 
darkness  and  danger  before  him,  I  could 
but  say: 

"  How  grand  a  thing  to  be  a  man !  " 
"  How  divine  a  thing  to  be  a  woman  1 " 
he  said  in  the  gentlest  voice,  pointing 
to  the  open  window  of  the  hospital, 
extending  his  hand  in  farewel.  With 
these  words  he  rode  on.  Then  I  saw 
the  vast,  dark-moving  mass  of  living  men, 
each  one  with  a  high  heart  of  courage  in 
his  breast,  pass  silently  and  swiftly  out 
into  the  night. 

"  How  divine  a  thing  to  be  a  woman," 
I  repeated,  as  I  entered  the  ward,  thanking 
God  that,  if  He  had  denied  me  the  ma 
terial  power  of  my  brother,  he  had 
granted  me  the  healing  hand  and  devoted 
heart  which  could  minister  to  him  and 
help  to  save  him  in  the  hour  when  ma 
terial  force  was  as  impossible  to  him  as 
to  me. 

On  Monday  morning  I  drew  my  cur 
tain  and  looked  out.  The  dense  fog 
above  Maryland  Heights  was  already 
splintered  with  the  sun  rays  darting  up 
from  behind  the  Blue  Ridge.  Curtains 
of  violet  mist  hung  along  the  green  sides 
of  Loudon  mountain.  The  sulphurous 
smoke  of  the  cannonade  enveloped  its 
summit,  spreading  dense  and  blue  above 
our  heads,  broken  here  and  there  into 
rifts  of  blue  sky.  In  the  stillness  of  the 
early  morning,  the  awful  roar  of  yesterday 
seemed  to  be  a  dreadful  dream.  It  could 
never  happen  again.  The  tops  of  these 
mountains  could  never  cleave  together 


again  in  such  an  apocalypse  of  sound. 
The  poor  old  hospital,  the  very  founda 
tions  of  Camp  Hill,  could  never  be  thus 
shaken  more,  "No,  never,"  I  said,  half 
asleep.  The  next  instant  I  stood  in  the 
middle  of  the  floor,  sent  thither  by  the 
shock  of  forty  batteries.  The  cannon 
ading  of  Sunday  had  been  terrific,  this 
of  Monday  morning  was  appalling.  The 
enemy  fired  upon  us  from  seven  different 
directions,  while  our  own  guns  from  be 
low  replied  with  great  spirit  and  effect. 
The  fight  was  unequal,  hopeless,  but  the 
soldiers  at  our  guns  never  faltered. 

Just  then  Colonel  M.,  the  commander 
of  the  town,  rode  past.  He  was  going 
to  the  front — to  surrender,  accompanied 
by  his  handsome  young  aides  in  glitter 
ing  uniform,  followed  by  an  imposing 
retinue  of  mounted  "  orderlies." 

He  was  going  to  surrender,  mounted 
for  the  last  time  on  the  petted,  prancing 
horse  which  had  carried  him  through 
the  campaign  of  Mexico.  He  rode  to  the 
front  of  the  battle-line  amid  torrents  of 
bursting  shells,  and  saying  to  one  of  his 
aides,  "  I  have  done  the  best  I  could,  I 
have  done  my  duty,"  he  waved  a  white 
pocket-handkerchief  as  a  flag  of  truce. 
But  the  cannonaders  upon  the  mountain 
tops  were  too  eager  with  their  fiendish 
firing  to  see  this  feeble  signal  of  surrender. 
In  vain  Colonel  M.  rode  up  and  down 
the  line,  waving  the  white  flag,  the  storm 
of  death  seemed  only  to  deepen.  Half 
an  hour  later,  hearing  the  swift  fore-run 
ning  triumphant  shriek,  he  bowed  his 
head  to  save  it,  but  the  avenging  shell 
would  not  be  defrauded  of  retribution. 
Its  sole  errand  was  death  to  him.  It 
struck  low,  it  tore  the  very  artery  of  life, 
and  he  fell.  His  attached  aide-de-camp, 
after  trying  vainly  to  staunch  the  profuse 
bleeding  of  the  wound,  placed  him  in  a 
blanket,  and  with  great  difficulty  found  a 
soldier  willing  to  help  carry  the  fallen 
commander  from  the  battle-field,  This 
was  a  young  officer  of  a  New  York  regi 
ment.  He  had  scarcely  taken  hold  of 
the  blanket,  when  another  bomb-shell, 
almost  grazing  the  fallen  head  of  Colonel 
M..  struck  this  young  man  and  shivered 
him  to  atoms. 

The  announcement  of  the  surrender 


A  WOMAN'S  RIGHT. 


167 


and  of  the  fall  of  Colonel  M.  passed  along 
the  ranks  simultaneously.  Then  the  lion- 
hearted  Captain  McG.,  of  New  York, 
who  sent  shell  after  shell  from  his  battery 
into  the  enemy's  ranks,  whose  splendid 
shots  and  rash  bravery  were  the  admi 
ration  of  all,  being  told  that  the  town 
was  surrendered,  threw  up  his  arms, 
burst  into  tears,  and  cried,  "  0,  my  boys, 
we  have  no  country !  " 

It  was  then  amid  the  resounding  shells 
and  the  cries  of  the  wounded  and  dying, 
that  imprecations  and  curses  broke  from 
the  ranks. 

"  After  all  to  surrender,  what  a 
shame !  "  was  the  cry.  Yet  there  was 
no  help  for  it  now.  Our  ammunition 
was  gone — there  was  not  enough  for 
another  round,  while  the  enemy  had  re 
served  his  most  deadly  fire  until  to-day, 
and  his  store  was  unexhausted.  Now 
his  firing  upon  a  foe  utterly  at  his  mercy 
was  appalling.  We  ought  to  have  had 
ammunition,  we  ought  to  have  had  help, 
but  we  had  neither,  and  the  end  was 
surrender. 

I  saw  them  bring  him  back,  bleeding 
and  groaning,  on  a  blanket,  the  man  who 
had  passed  my  window  so  proudly 
mounted  two  hours  before!  It  was  a 
sad,  sad  sight,  this  bleeding  gray-haired 
soldier.  Whatever  his  faults,  he  expia 
ted  them  with  his  life.  . 

Another  day,  and  a  rough  pine  box, 
on  the  floor  of  the  hall  of  the  house 
which  had  been  his  headquarters,  held  all 
that  was  left  of  him  mortal.  Young 
rebel  officers,  in  grey  jackets  richly  em 
broidered  with  gold  lace,  sat  chatting 
upon  this  box,  clicking  their  swords  and 
striking  their  spurs  against  it  as  careless 
of  its  contents  as  if  it  encased  a  dead 
mule. 

No  one  but  a  few  personal  friends 
honored  the  dust  of  this  unfortunate 
man,  doubly  unfortunate  in  that  death 
could  not  retrieve  his  clouded  honor.  It 
could  not  annul  the  fact  that  he  had 
failed  as  a  commander.  The  guns  on 
Maryland  Heights  were  not  properly 
mounted  for  defence.  Loudon  Heights 
were  left  utterly  open  to  attack.  The 
pontoon  bridges  were  left  for  the  enemy 
to  pass  over.  Stores,  ammunition,  arms, 


were  held  intact  for  Jackson  to  seize  on. 
The  only  key  was  turned,  the  only  door 
opened,  through  which  the  rebels  could 
escape  from  Maryland,  or  Jackson  rush 
from  Virginia  to  reinforce  Longstreet, — 
the  war  prolonged,  the  paean  of  another 
rebel  victory  shouted  in  the  face  of  Eu 
rope, -the  most  disgraceful  victory  of  the 
war. 

Surely,  this  man  had  every  personal 
incentive  to  do  differently.  A  clouded 
brain,  an  overwhelming  foe,  must  have 
made  him  incapable  of  seizing  his  chance 
for  immortality,  and  have  sent  a  brave 
soldier  into  a  dishonored  grave. 

Not  half  an  hour  had  passed  after  the 
surrender  when  the  rebel  army  had  en 
tered  the  town.  It  was  a  sad,  a  humili 
ating,  a  disgraceful  sight.  While  the 
bombardment  lasted  hope  did  not  quite 
die.  Help  might  come ;  the  last  thrill  of 
hope  kept  us  from  despair.  I  saw  the 
first  mounted  ensign  pass  the  earth 
works  which  had  been  guarded  so  long 
by  loyal  soldiers.  I  saw  him  flaunt 
aloft  the  bloody  stars  and  bars  and  the 
palmetto  flag ;  I  saw  him  drag  the  ban 
ner  of  the  Union  in  the  dust.  It  was  a 
sight  that  I  could  not  bear.  After  it  came 
Jackson's  entire  army.  No  waving  flags, 
outstretched  hands,  no  murmurs  of  joy, 
no  woman's  welcome  greeted  it. 

They  peered  into  the  windows  with 
curious  eyes, — some  of  these  mount 
ed  cavaliers,  but  the  few  faces  which 
they  saw  were  tear-dimmed  :  the  bitter 
est  tears  of  a  lifetime  greeted  them  in 
at  least  one  house.  If  I  were  to  live  a 
thousand  lives,  that  moment  in  its  poig 
nant  conciousness  of  shame,  defeat, 
degradation,  could  never  be  repeated, — 
that  moment  in  which  for  the  first  time 
I  saw  the  flag  of  my  country  dragged  in 
the  dust  of  the  road,  followed  by  a  tri 
umphant  host,  that  host  my  own  country 
men. 

First  came  the  cavalry,  the  "  flower," 
the  "chivalry,"  the  aristocracy  of  the 
South,  spurred  and  mounted  like  the 
knights  of  old,  each  man  in  his  spirit 
and  person,  in  his  dauntless  daring,  in 
his  insane  devotion  to  one  idea,  repeat 
ing  the  princely  crusade  of  the  Middle 
Ages.  They  look  what  they  are,  high- 


168 


EIRENE : 


blooded,  high  bred,  infatuated  men. 
Every  eye  burns  with  passion.  Careless, 
reckless  even  of  life,  all  that  they  value 
risked  on  a  single  stake,  they  ask  only  to 
win  or  to  die.  Unlike  the  infantry,  they 
know  what  they  are  fighting  for.  They 
will  tell  you  without  the  asking.  "I  am 
fighting  for  Southern  rights,  for  my 
home,  for  my  niggers."  Their  intercourse 
with  those  whom  they  consider  equals 
is  marked  by  a  lavish  generosity,  a 
courtly  courtesy,  but  to  inferiors  they 
are  supercilious,  tyrannical,  and  often 
brutal.  They  hold  a  slave  as  scarcely 
more  than  a  beast,  yet  they  rate  him 
higher,  and  would  choose  him  as  a  per 
sonal  associate  sooner  than  they  would  a 
Yankee. 

After  these  imperial  leaders  marched 
their  slaves,  their  white  slaves,  true  serfs, 
fighting  in  their  rear  for  eternal  serfdom, 
which  they  are  taught  to  believe  is 
Southern  rights.  On,  helter  skelter, 
crowding  the  street,  swarmed  a  worse 
than  Egyptian  plague !  Barefooted, 
half-naked,  foul,  flouting  their  dirty  ban 
ners,  gazing  eagerly  about  with  their 
starved  faces,  intent  only  on  plunder, 
and  on  finding  something  to  eat.  Thus 
the  deliverers  of  Maryland,  regenerators 
of  the  nation,  entered  Harper's  Ferry, 
September  15,  1862. 

While  the  officers  were  dashing  down 
the  road,  and  the  half-naked  privates 


begging  at  every  door,  General  Jackson 
stood  sunning  himself,  and  talking  with 
a  group  of  soldiers  across  the  street, — a 
plain  man  in  plain  clothes,  with  an  iron 
face,  and  iron-gray  hair.  Only  by  his 
bearing  could  he  be  distinguished  from 
his  men.  He  stood  as  if  the  commandei 
of  all,  marked  only  by  the  mysterious  in 
signia  of  individual  presence,  by  which 
we  know  instinctively  the  genius  from 
the  clown.  No  golden  token  of  rank 
gleamed  on  his  rusty  clothes,  none  of 
the  shining  symbols  of  which,  alas!  too 
many  of  our  officers  are  so  ridiculously 
fond,  that  they  seem  unconscious  how 
disgraceful  is  this  glitter  of  vanity. 
They  were  nowhere  visible  on  old 
Stonewall's  person.  When  General 
Jackson  had  drank  at  the  pump,  and 
talked  at  his  leisure,  he  mounted  his 
flame-oolored  horse,  and  rode  down  the 
street  at  the  jog  of  a  comfortable  farmer 
carrying  a  bag  of  meal  to  mill. 

As  he  passed  I  could  not  but  wonder 
how  many  times  he  had  prayed  on 
Saturday  night,  before  commencing  his 
hellish  Sabbath  work.  His  old  servant 
says  that,  "when  Massa  prays  four  times 
in  de  night,  he  knows  de  devil'll  be  to 
pay  next  day."  And  I  am  very  sure 
that  there  was  a  large  number  of  devils 
at  work  above  Harper's  Ferry  on  Sun 
day,  September  14,  1862. 


A  WOMAN'S  RIGHT. 


1G9 


CHAPTER  XIX. 


ETREN-E'S  DIAET. — DEATH  O»  WIN. 

October  1. 

DEAR  MOTHER  : — All  is  over.  I  will 
write  down  on  the  pages  of  this  little  book 
every  thing  that  you  want  to  know,  but 
which  I  cannot  send  you  now.  I  knew 
that  Win's  regiment  was  at  the  front,  but 
tried  to  think  of  him  as  unharmed — in 
the  thickest  of  the  fight,  and  yet  un 
touched.  If  I  thought  of  him  otherwise 
I  knew  that  it  would  unfit  me  to  serve 
the  many  who  really  needed  me.  Yet  a 
feeling  of  dumb  terror  seized  me  with 
every  fresh  ambulance  that  I  saw  com 
ing  down  the  winding  road  from  Bolivar. 
Who  might  be  in  it  ?  Alas !  I  was 
forced  to  say :  "  Somebody's  brother !  " 
Then  I  served  him  but  the  more  faithful 
ly  because  in  my  selfishness  I  had  been 
so  glad  that  he  was  not  my  own. 

At  last  all  the  wounded  had  been 
brought  in  they  said,  all  but  those  who 
had  fallen  between  the  battle  lines ;  they 
had  lain  longer,  and  there  was  less  hope 
for  them. 

You  cannot  imagine  the  look  of  the 
ruined  town  that  Monday  evening,  Sep 
tember  15.  Thirteen  thousand  of  our 
own. men  wandering  about  idle,  unarm 
ed,  paroled.  Thousands  of  Confederates 
swarming  the  hillsides,  the  roads,  the 
yards  and  houses,  ragged,  often  bare 
backed.  bare-footed,abject, worn-out  men. 
Their  little  camp-fires  were  flickering  in 
every  direction  along  the  roads  and  over 
the  hillsides,  and  over  them  they  were 
cooking  their  suppers.  And  yet  where 
could  you  look  without  seeing  their 
stretchers  standing  in  the  yards  and  in 
the  road,  filled  with  their  dying  and 
dead.  Far  down  in  the  gorge  great 
tongues  of  fire  leaped  up  into  the  dark 
ness  where  they  were  burning  the  Gov 
ernment  arsenal,  and  firing  the  grand 
railroad  bridge  doomed  so  often  to  de 
struction.  It  was  by  the  light  of  these 


flames  that  I  watched  the  last  line  of 
ambulances  approaching  the  hospital. 
It  was  a  power  above  and  beyond  my 
self  that  helped  me  to  stand  there.  It 
seemed  as  if  my  heart  broke  anew  in  my 
breast  with  every  cry  of  human  anguish 
which  smote  it.  Their  moans  and  cries 
as  they  were  lifted  from  the  wagon  I 
can  never  cease  to  hear.  Dr.  De  Peys- 
ter  and  several  other  surgeons  were  there 
to  superintend  their  removal  to  the  hos 
pital  tents ;  for  the  main  buildings  were 
filled  to  overflowing. 

They  were  lifting  from  the  last  ambu 
lance  a  slender,  fair-haired  boy  whose  face 
to  me  seemed  already  struck  with  death. 
In  the  very  midst  of  my  pity  I  was 
thanking  God  that  he  was  safe  when  I 
saw  them  lift  another  from  the  same 
ambulance.  Mother,  it  was  Win. 

"  0  my  brother!"  I  cried. 

"  Rene,"  he  said  "  Rene !  "  as  if  he 
dreamed,  then  shut  his  eyes. 

I  saw  Dr.  De  Peyster  and  Dr.  Fay  lift 
the  stretcher  on  which  he  laid  with  their 
own  hands  and  carry  him  away.  I  fol 
lowed  close  behind. 

4iMy  brother,  0,  give  him  to  me,"  I 
implored. 

Before  I  had  thought  whither  they 
were  going,  I  saw  Win  laid  upon  Dr. 
De  Peyster's  own  cot  in  his  own  room 
leading  off  from  the  great  ward. 

"Sister  Eirene,"  he  said,  "you  shall 
have  your  brother.  Where  could  you 
care  for  him  better  than  here  ?" 

"Where  is  Davy?"  murmured  Win, 
slowly  opening  his  eyes. 

"Who  is  Davy,  brother  dear ? " 

"  The  boy — the  South  Carolina  boy 
who  was  brought  here  with  me.  We 
fell — together — we've  lain  together  since 
yesterday.  He  gave  me  the  water  in 
his  canteen — all  he  had,  can't  he  come  ?  " 

I  looked  at  Dr.  De  Peyster. 

"  A  gray  back  ?  "  he  said,  "  and  yet — 


170 


EIRENK : 


yes !  let  him  come.  Fay,  will  you  tell 
them  to  bring  the  South  Carolinian 
here  ?  " 

A  few  moments  more  and  another 
couch  was  brought  into  the  room  and 
placed  beside  that  of  Win's. 

The  boy  in  blue  and  the  boy  in  gray 
face  to  face  looked  into  each  other's 
eyes,  Twenty-four  hours  they  had  lain 
in  their  wounds ;  this  was  the  thought 
which  agonized  me  as  I  washed  the 
grime  and  mud  of  the  roadside  from 
their  pallid  faces  and  hands.  I  had  not 
shed  a  tear  since  I  saw  the  rebel  host 
march  defiantly  in — not  one  since  then. 
I  had  only  had  time  for  my  duty,  but 
now,  now  bending  over  my  brother,  my 
only  brother — at  last,  at  last,  it  seemed 
as  if  my  very  being  were  dissolving — as 
if  all  I  could  do  was  to  take  him  into  my 
arms  and  implore  him  to  live. 

"  Sister  Eirene,"  said  Dr.  De  Peyster, 
"  I  must  ask  you  to  go  now  for  a  little 
time  while  we  examine  their  wounds. 
You  will  need  all  your  strength  and  all 
your  fortitude  to  nurse  your  brother 
afterwards.  It  pains  me  to  ask  you  to 
go,  but  I  must." 

He  saved  me  from  an  outburst  of  grief 
which  must  have  unfitted  me  for  all 
service  for  hours  after.  I  felt  at  once 
how  wise  and  kind  he  was  as  I  lifted  my 
head  and  went.  At  first  it  seemed  to  me 
that  I  must  go  to  my  room,  throw  myself 
upon  my  face,  and  sob  and  cry  to  God  to 
save  my  brother.  I  was  helped  to  do 
.otherwise.  Just  as  I  was  rushing  on  to 
do  it,  I  caught  the  mute  appeal  cast 
upon  me  from  the  eyes  of  one  of  my 
boys,  one  who  had  been  under  my  care 
for  weeks.  I  stopped  and  went  to  him, 
from  him  to  others,  and  thus  in  mercy 
was  once  more  saved  from  myself. 

Yet  it  seemed  long,  it  was  long  before 
I  was  summoned  back. 

"Your  brother  is  very  dangerously 
wounded — we  will  be  prepared  for  the 
worst,"  said  Dr.  De  Peyster,  as  he  met 
me  outside  of  the  door. 

Dreadful  as  his  words  were,  I  knew 
that  even  tbey  did  not  convey  the  full 
import  of  his  thought.  He  did  not 
know  it,  but  his  .voice  said:  "  Your 
brother  will  die." 


I  felt  as  if  my  own  heart  had  stopped 
beating  as  I  stole  softly  back  into  the 
room.  I  sat  down  between  the  two 
cots.  Both  boys  were  still  under  the  in 
fluence  of  the  ether  which  had  been  ad 
ministered  to  them  before  the  examina 
tion  of  their  wounds.  I  don't  know  how 
long  it  was,  but  at  last  Win  opened  his 
eyes. 

"  Rene,"  he  whispered,  "  I  know  now 
what  it  is  to  be  a  soldier.  Do  you  re 
member  in  the  old  barn  years  and  years 
ago — I  dreamed  about  it  ?  All  that  has 
come  to  pass,  and  more,  so  much  more." 

"  Yes,"  I  said,  "  so  much  more,  and  it 
seems  as  if  it  were  away  in  some  other 
life  that  we  talked  about  it,  Win.  We 
won't  talk  about  it  now,  it  will  tire  you ; 
but  we'll  think  of  nothing  but  of  your 
getting  well,  and  going  home  to  see 
mother." 

The  sweetest  smile  passed  over  his 
face,  but  he  shook  his  head. 

"  I  shall  never  see  mother  again  in 
this  world,"  he  said.  "  Let  me  talk,  Rene. 
It's  the  last  time — the  last  time.  I've 
thought  so  often  in  my  tent  at  night, 
and  when  lying  in  the  trenches,  and 
under  the  guns,  if  I  could  only  see 
Rene,  if  I  could  only  talk  with  Rene 
once  more — this  is  the  once  more  I " 

I  did  not  answer  him.  I  knew  if  I 
tried  that  I  could  not. 

"  It  has  been  hard  sometimes  to  be  a 
soldier,"  he  went  on — "not  in  battle,  not 
when  we  were  marching  to  an  engage 
ment.  There  was  excitement  in  that 
— a  fire  in  the  thought  that  forced  one 
on  beyond  and  above  every  thing  in 
one's  self;  but  day  after  day  to  build 
corduroy  roads  in  the  snow,  to  march 
and  countermarch  in  the  beating  rain,  in 
the  Virginia  mud  to  the  knees,  to  wait 
in  trenches  and  under  guns  for  nothing, 
as  the  Army  of  the  Potomac  has  so  often 
done — that  has  been  hard,  Rene." 

"  Yes,  I  have  felt  so  many  times, 
how  hard  it  was." 

"  Rene,  I  have  seen  so  many  dear 
comrades  drop  and  die  by  the  road,  and 
felt  that  their  lives  were  thrown  away. 
Then  it  was  hard  to  keep  up  one's 
faith  and  principle.  It  seemed  some 
times  as  if  we  were  only  puppets 


A  WOMAN'S  RIGHT. 


171 


— the  puppets  of  incompetent  or  un 
principled  men  ;  and  when  men  no 
better  born  or  bred  than  ourselves 
were  cruel  to  the  common  soldier  then 
il  was  not  pain  of  body  only,  it  was 
anguish  of  heart  and  torture  of  spirit 
Then  it  was  hard  to  keep  hold  of  the 
grand  idea  of  country." 

"  0  Win  !  " 

"  I've  felt  so  different,  Rene,  ever  since 
I  knew  that  you  were  in  Virginia.  I've 
never  doubted  for  a  moment  since  then 
that  if  anything  happened  I  should  be 
brought  to  you.  I  knew  that  you  were 
thinking  of  me." 

"  Yes,  every  moment.  I  knew  you 
were  up  the  Valley.  At  last  I  thought 
that  all  had  been  brought  in,  and  that 
you  were  safe." 

"  It  was  not  to  be,  Rene.  That  was 
all  that  there  was  in  life  for  me — to  be  a 
soldier — and  to  give  up  my  life." 

"  Had  you  lived  ages  you  could  not 
have  given  more.  But  I  feel  it  hard,"  I 
said. 

"  No,  Rene,  what  can  one  have  more 
than  their  destiny;  this  is  mine,  the 
destiny  of  so  many  young  men  of  my 
generation,  to  die  for  my  country.  I 
never  could  struggle  «n  like  you  day  by 
day  as  if  I  had  a  future.  I  knew  that  I 
had  no  future  ;  but  I  could  do  my  duty, 
and  I  did  it  gladly." 

"  You  did  it  bravely,  and  you  will 
have  your  reward  somewhere — some 
where,  Win." 

"It  is  reward  enough,  Rene,  that  you 
•are  satisfied  with  me,  and  that  I  am  with 
you.  Tell  mother  that  when  I  laid  in 
my  blanket — when  I  marched  in  the 
road — when  I  stood  on  guard  at  night 
under  the  stars — when  I  went  into  battle, 
I  always  thought  of  her.  Every 
unkind  word  I  had  ever  spoken,  every 
naughty  thing  that  I  had  ever  done, 
came  back  to  me,  and  it  seemed  if  I 
could  only  live  to  see  her  once  more  I 
would  be  a  better  boy.  Tell  her  so.  Tell 
her  how  sorry  I  am  for  every  wrong  thing 
I  ever  did.  Tell  her  that  I — I  love  her." 

A  low  sob  broke  from  the  other  cot. 
God  forgive  'me,  in  hearing  Win's  voice 
I  had  forgotten  the  other  boy. 

I  turned  to  him,  it  helped  me  hide  ray 


tears.  I  laid  the  hair  wet  with  cold 
sweat  from  his  forehead.  The  death 
pallor  was  on  his  face,  his  lips  quivered 
in  its  chill.  I  had  seen  its  sign  too 
often  not  to  know  that  he  was  dying.  , 

I  took  his  hand,  I  bent  over  him  and 
kissed  him. 

"Thank  you,"  he  said,  and  the  tears 
trickled  through  his  closed  eyelids. 

"0,  to  think  there  is  no  one  to  take 
my  message  to  my  mother!" 

"I  will  send  it  to  her,"  I  said.  "Tell 
me  her  name  and  where  she  lives,  and  I 
will  write  her  any  word  you  say." 

"Will  you!  thank  you!  How  good 
you  are !  And  you  are  a  Yankee  I  My 
mother  lives  near  Aiken,  South  Carolina. 
Tell  her  I  love  her,  just  as  your  brother 
loves  his  mother — that  I  die  trusting  in 
the  Saviour  in  whom  she  taught  me  to 
trust." 

"I  will  write  it  just  as  you  say  it, 
Davy." 

"  0,  how  I  thank  you  I  Could  you — 
would  you  mind  pushing  me  a  little 
nearer  to  him?"  And  he  opened  wide 
his  blue  eyes  and  looked  wistfully 
toward  Win,  whose  face  was  turned 
towards  him. 

"He  spoke  to  me  so  kind  in  the 
trenches.  I  loved  him  if  he  was  a  Yan 
kee.  I  knew  no  harm  of  Yankees  only 
what  they  told  me.  I  never  saw  one 
till  in  the  fight.  I  was  at  school  when 
the  war  broke  out.  I'm  only  seventeen. 
I  had  no  slaves  to  fight  for — never  had 
any.  My  father  was  a  minister,  Scotch- 
Irish  born.  I  was  a  Carolinian,  and 
when  they  conscripted  me  I  would  have 
gone  cheerfully  if  mother  had  not  cried. 
Poor  mother!  a  widow,  I  her  only  one! 
If  I  could  only  see  you,  mother,  just  for 
one  minute — just  to  kiss  you  before  I 
die — what  a  comfort!  Please  push  me 
closer  to  him.  We  fought — we  shan't 
again." 

I  pushed  the  cots  together.  Each  boy 
stretched  out  a  hand. 

"  It  was  for  my  country,"  said  Win. 

"I  thought  it  was  for  my  country," 
said  Davy.  "  I  didn't  know  what  it  was 
for;  I  don't  now." 

They  smiled  into  each  other,  the  blue 
eyes  and  the  brown.  I  leaned  over 


172 


EIRENE : 


their  heads,  and  noticed  for  the  first  time 
their  jackets  left  inadvertently  upon  the 
foot  of  their  cots — the  blue  and  the  grey, 
each  soaked  with  the  blood  from  their 

wounds. 

*         *         *          *         *          * 

I  don't  know  when  it  was.  I  heard 
Win  say :  "  My  love  to  Pansy.  Mother, 
my  love  to  mother.  Kiss  me,  Rene." 

He  threw  his  arm  over  my  neck,  drew 
my  head  down.  It  seemed  as  if  it  was 
the  same  instant  that  the  other  voice 
said:  " Mother  1"  and  the  other's  arm 
was  thrown  about  my  neck.  There  I 
kneeled  with  my  head  between  the  two. 
I  felt  their  quivering  breath.  I  felt  their 
souls  departing.  I  felt  them  as  they 
went  out  in  their  passage  to  eternity. 
Then  I  knew  no  more. 

Some  time,  I  don't  know  when,  I  heard 
Dr.  De  Peyster  say :  "  Come  with  me, 
Sister  Eirene." 

Then  I  looked  upon  their  faces — they 
were  dead — both  of  the  boys  were  dead. 

I  kissed  them  both.  I  said:  ''I  must 
stay  with  my  brother." 

"  By  and  by ;  now  you  must  come  with 
me,"  he  answered,  in  a  voice  gentle  and 
yet  compelling. 

He  took  my  hand  and  led  me  away  to 
the  door  of  my  room. 

"  You  will  sleep  now,1'  he  said.  "  To 
morrow  you  can  stay  with  your  brother." 

That  night  Pierre  De  Peyster  went 
the  rounds  of  the  hospitals  as  usual. 
Then  he  came  back  to  the  door  of  the 
room  within  which  Eirene  sat  alone  with 
the  two  dying  men.  Little  did  she  dream, 
as  she  sat  there,  of  the  pity  and  sorrow 
and  love  which  throbbed  in  one  strong 
heart  for  her.  Little  did  she  dream 
that  the  man  who  had  seemed  to  her 
both  haughty  and  unfeeling,  now  paced 
up  and  down  before  that  closed  door, 
too  sensitive  and  too  delicate  to  intrude 
personally  upon  an  interview  sanctified, 
in  his  thought,  by  love  and  death.  Ac 
customed  as  he  had  become  to  every 
possible  sight  of  human  suffering  or 
mental  anguish,  his  step  and  hand  both 
faltered  whenever  he  essayed  to  cross 
the  threshold  of  that  room.  At  intervals 
a  low  murmur  of  voices,  a  broken  sob, 
would  reach  his  ear,  and  his  heart  would 


impel  him  to  enter,  but  in  the  silence 
that  followed  he  could  not;  he  felt  that 
he  could  not  meet  the  look  of  mute 
appeal  upon  that  face.  He  knew  what  it 
would  say:  "Save,  oh, save  my  brother! " 
He  knew  that  he  could  not — knew  that 
he  must  stand  there  and  behold  the  sor 
row  that  he  could  not  alleviate,  and  the 
knowledge  made  him  a  coward. 

"  My  God,  I  could  never  deny  her 
anything  if  she  looked  at  me,"  he  said ; 
"  but  death  is  mightier  even  than  love, 
and  now  she  would  appeal  to  me  in 
vain. 

"Everything  that  could  have  been 
done  has  been  done.  If  she  needs  as 
sistance  she  knows  that  it  is  within 
call,"  he  said,  again  resuming  his  watch. 

Time  wore  on  —  the  dead  silence 
within  at  last  became  unbearable,  then 
he  softly  opened  the  door  and  entered. 
As  he  approached  the  bed,  at  first  he 
thought  that  all  three  were  dead.  The 
girl  kneeling  at  the  head  of  the  low 
cots  seemed  to  have  fallen  forward ;  an 
arm  of  each  man  was  thrown  over  her 
neck — they  were  dead,  and  she  lying 
there  looked  as  white  and  motionless  as 
they.  Yet  it  was  not  death.  As  Pierre 
De  Peyster  lifted  the  unresisting  arms 
which  encircled  her,  and  held  her  up, 
she  opened  her  eyes  and  looked  into  his 
face.  There  was  no  swooning,  no  cry 
ing,  no  ungoverned  excitement.  It  was 
a  simple  coming  back  to  life  and  to  an 
utter  consciousness  of  it. 

"  He  is  dead.  They  both  are  dead," 
said  the  pathetic  voice,  and  the  unutter 
able  grief  expressed  in  tone  and  gesture 
was  more  moving  in  their  pathos  than 
the  loudest  cries. 

It  was  then  that  Pierre  De  Peystej 
said :  "  You  must  come  with  me." 

He  saw  that  she  must  find  present 
oblivion  from  sorrow,  or  that  in  her 
very  silence  she  would  break  under  it. 
He  used  the  will  which  was  the  strong 
underlying  element  of  his  character,  and 
mentally  compelled  her  to  go.  Worn 
out  and  broken  as  she  was,  there  was 
rest  in  the  very  fact  that  another  thought 
for  her  and  told  her  what  to  do.  When 
he  left  her  he  came  back  to  his  own 
room,  shut  the  door,  and  sat  down  alone 


A  WOMAN'S  RIGHT. 


173 


with  the  dead,  llfl  was  used  to  death, 
in  some  respects  had  become  too  used  to 
it.  He  had  come  to  meet  it  in  its  most 
hideous  forms  outwardly  unmoved.  The 
wholesale  human  slaughter  by  which  he 
was  surrounded  had  had  the  tendency 
to  make  the  life  of  any  one  man  to  seem 
comparatively  but  a  little  thing.  He 
had  no  time  and  no  rest  now  to  think 
of  men  individually. 

Neither  was  he  free  from  the  faults 
of  his  class,  nor  the  spirit  of  caste  so 
constantly  fostered  by  the  discipline  of 
the  army.  A  private  in  his  thought 
meant  a  poor  ignorant  Irishman  or 
Dutchman,  one  of  the  city  rabble  who 
risked  his  life  for  fifteen  dollars  a  month, 
and  then  received  more  for  it  than  he 
could  under  any  other  possible  circum 
stances.  He  knew,  if  he  thought  of  it, 
that  there  were  tens  of  thousands  of 
exceptions  in  boys  well  born  and  gently 
reared,  from  the  farms,  the  shops,  thje 
schools,  the  professions  of  his  native 
land,  who  marched  in  the  ranks,  and 
who  had  given  up  all  that  they  held 
most  dear  to  fight  for  their  country. 
He  recognized  them  when  he  saw  them, 
and  sympathized  with  them,  and  yet 
no  less  the  average  private  in  his  mind 
was  a  fellow  always  getting  drunk  and 
into  the  guard-house  at  every  possible 
opportunity,  who  consequently  deserved 
to  be  balanced  on  a  pole,  or  to  receive 
any  other  inhuman  punishment  which 
his  superior  officers  chose  to  visit  upon 
him.  Yet  here  upon  his  own  bed  was 
stretched  the  dead  body  of  a  common 
soldier,  no  finer,  and  no  truer  than  tens 
of  thousands  of  his  comrades  who  had 
died  as  he  died.  And  here  was  another 
common  soldier — Pierre  De  Peyster 
turned  with  a  look  of  repulsion  from  the 
gray  uniforms  so  hateful  to  him,  lying  on 
the  foot  of  the  bed,  covered  with  dust 
and  pierced  by  bullets, — but  it  faded  as 
it  fell  upon  the  face  of  the  wearer,  so 
little  more  than  a  child,  a  fair-haired, 
blue-eyed  boy,  with  an  infantine  smile 
hovering  about  the  sunken  features,  so 
wasted  by  hardship  and  suffering.  It 
was  impossible  to  regard  this  face  as  the 
face  of  a  foe,  although  he  had  not  heard 
a  word  that  the  boy  had  spoken.  The 


face  of  the  other  dead  soldier  smiled 
back  upon  his  friend.  It  was  embrown 
ed  by  many  months  of  exposure,  yet  it 
was  no  less  beautiful  in  its  fresh  young 
manhood.  The  soft  brown  eyes,  looking 
forth  from  the  half-closed  lids,  were  so 
like  hers,  the  seal  of  blood  and  birth 
showed  so  plain  in  death ;  for  an  instant 
he  seemed  her,  and  Pierre  De  Peyster 
started.  There  were  the  two  outstretch 
ed  arms  just  as  they  had  been  unwound 
from  her  neck.  Pierre,  seeing  them,  re 
alized  all.  and  again  sat  down  and  gazed 
at  the  dead  faces  before  him. 

"  I  am  converted,"  he  said  slowly, 
aloud. 

"  Either  all  life  is  changed,  or  I  am. 
At  last,  I  seem  to  see  everything  as  it  is. 
You,  my  poor  boy — I  should  have  hated 
the  sight  of  you  six  hours  ago.  Looking 
upon  your  face,  I  see  that  you  are  not  to 
blame.  And  you!  If  I  had  come  to 
you  in  a  ward  amid  a  hundred  others,  I 
might  have  seen  no  difference,  and  now 
— both  are  holy  in  my  sight." 

Dawn  was  flushing  red  above  the 
mountains  when  Pierre  De  Peyster  went 
forth  from  this  room.  Then  he  went 
into  the  old  graveyard,  which,  a  few  rods 
from  the  hospital,  stretched  over  the 
hill. 

"  It  is  as  I  thought,"  he  said,  standing 
by  an  open  grave  almost  covered  by 
bushes  near  the  old  stone  wall. 

"  Poor  Erwin's  body  was  taken  up 
and  sent  to  his  friends  before  the  sur 
render.  The  bushes  have  hidden  this 
grave,  and  here  is  room  for  another. 
They  can  be  buried  side  by  side." 

EIRENE'S  DIARY,  OCTOBER  3. 

Mother,  in  the  quiet  of  the  early  even 
ing,  when  even  the  torn  mountains  and 
the  ravaged  valley  took  on  a  look  of  peace, 
we  laid — not  him,  but  his  body,  down  to 
rest,  and  beside  it  that  of  poor  little 
Davy.  Everything  had  been  done  that 
kindness  could  do  to  make  their  burial 
home-like  and  Christian-like.  I  could 
not  but  think  of  it,  even  in  my  grief 
how  different  were  the  neat  caskets  and 
attire  in  which  they  rested,  from  the 
rude  box  and  the  rough  coats  in  which 
I  had  seen  so  many  of  our  boys  buried — 


EIRENK  : 


yes,  so  many  without  coat  or  box  at  all, 
just  as  they  fell.  It  was  Dr.  De  Peys- 
ter  who  did  this  for  them.  It  was  all 
done  before  I  awoke.  I  came  out  of 
that  sleep  as  if  I  had  come  back  from 
another  world ;  I  was  so  worn  out,  I 
suppose.  I  remember  I  wrote  you  I 
didn't  like  Dr.  De  Peyster.  I  should  be 
very  ungrateful  if  I  could  write  that 
now.  He  seemed  stern,  even  hard.  I 
think  still  that  he  has  this  nature — but 
he  has  another  which  has  covered  me 
with  a  kindness  that  I  can  never  forget. 
It  seemed  as  if  a  tender  Providence 
had  saved  this  sheltered  corner  in  the  old 
over-crowded  graveyard  for  these  two 
boys.  I  don't  know  who  found  it.  but 
I  see  it  now,  hidden  from  the  highway 
by  rose-bushes,  close  to  the  stone  wall 
on  the  very  hill- top.  I  have  much  to 
do.  but  no  day  so  much  but  I  take  a  few 
moments  to  visit  these  graves.  I  cannot 
weep  for  Win  now.  I  never  shall  weep 
for  him  again,  till  I  come  home  and  see 
his  old  haunts,  and  sit  down  once  more 
in  the  old  barn  where  he  told  me  when 
a  boy  that  he  should  some  day  be  a  sol 
dier.  I  cannot  weep  here.  The  suffer 
ing  that  I  see,  the  dying  eyes  that  I 
close,  would  make  it  seem  too  selfish. 


He  is  a  part  of  the  vast  sacrifice — the 
sacrifice  which  began  on  yonder  moun 
tain-top — when  that  heroic  old  martyr, 
insane  with  a  holy  idea,  came  down 
its  sides,  undaunted  and  alone,  to  be 
the  saviour  of  a  race.  But,  mother, 
while  I  realize  what  freedom  costs,  at 
what  a  price  this  Republic  is  preserved, 
I  feel  as  if  it  would  break  ray  heart  if 
its  government  is  ever  again  administer 
ed  by  unholy  men. 

When  the  war  is  over,  and  I  come 
home,  I  shall  bring  the  body  of  our  boy 
to  rest  in  the  spot  that  he  loved,  where 
we  shall  all  rest  some  day.  When  it 
seems  hard  that  we  gave  him,  our  only 
one,  we  will  remember  that  every  hill 
side  and  valley  of  our  land  is  sown  with 
the  dust  of  its  most  precious  sons.  In 
almost  every  home  some  one  weeps  as 
we  do.  At  every  table  there  is  a  vacant 
place  that  can  never,  never  be  filled  in 
this  world.  So  many,  0,  so  many,  wit 
watch  and  wait  for  the  boy  who  will 
never  come  back — and  they  will  never 
know  where  he  fell,  or  where  he  lies — 
or  if  he  were  ever  buried.  This  will  be 
so  much  harder  to  bear,  and  yet  it  must 
be  borne. 


A  WOMAN'S  RIGHT. 


175 


CHAPTER  XX 


ETREtTE's  DIABT. 

November  1,  1862. 

DEAR  MOTHER  : — The  army  has  gone. 
The  entire  army  of  the  Potomac  march 
ed  down  Camp  Hill  days  ago.  All  the 
regimental  hospitals  are  broken  up.  The 
regimental  and  brigade  surgeons  have 
gone.  The  convalescents  have  been  trans 
ferred  to  Washington  and  Baltimore, 
only  the  very  sick  and  the  dangerously 
wounded  are  left  behind.  If  I  could  live 
a  thousand  lives  I  doubt  if  I  should  ever 
witness  again  such  human  suffering  as  I 
see  here  every  hour.  No  matter  what  I 
behold  hereafter  I  believe  that  I  shall  re 
cord  at  last  that  nothing  ever  equalled 
the  suffering  of  the  sick  and  wounded 
left  behind  by  the  army  of  the  Potomac 
at  Harper's  Ferry,  October,  1862.  The 
greater  portion  of  them  lie  in  the  hospit 
al  tents  which  line  the  meadows  between 
Bolivar  and  Harper's  Ferry.  It  does  not 
seem  like  the  same  land  from  which  I 
wrote  you  last.  The  equinoctial  rains 
have  flooded  the  valley  for  more  than  a 
week ;  the  two  rivers  have  risen  to  a 
great  height  and  pour  down  in  two  over 
whelming  floods,  which  rush  together  be 
low.  All  the  meadow  land  between  is 
soaked  with  water.  In  this,  on  the  ground, 
our  soldiers  lie.  The  daily  increasing 
number  of  dead  bodies  brought  past  our 
hospital,  to  be  buried  on  the  open  hill, 
convinced  me  that  something  was  wrong 
in  the  hospital  tents,  and  I  went  to  see. 
When  I  lifted  the  curtain  and  entered,  the 
sight  that  I  saw  made  my  heart  sink  with 
in  me.  On  either  side,  the  entire  length 
of  the  tent,  lying  as  close  as  they  could 
be  packed  upon  the  ground,  were  wound 
ed  and  dying  men.  As  I  went  to  one 
near  the  door,  he  lifted  up  the  corner  of 
the  blanket  spread  under  him,  and  he 
was  lying  nearly  body  deep  in  water. 

"  Lady,  do  you  remember  me  ?"  he 
asked. 


I  looked  at  his  sunken  features,  out  of 
which  the  last  hope  of  life  had  gone,  and 
could  not  recall  that  I  had  ever  seen  him 
before.  I  would  not  pain  him  by  saying 
so,  but  asked,  "Where  did  I  meet  you?" 

"  Don't  you  remember  the  Sabbath  af 
ternoon  that  you  brought  cordial  into  the 
little  brick  house  on  the  hill,  filled  with  a 
new  Pennsylvania  regiment  ?  I  was  one 
of  the  nurses,  and  hadn't  thought  of  get 
ting  sick  then.  Nothing  ailed  any  of 
the  boys  then,  but  a  touch  of  the  chills. 
We  thought  that  we  were  all  going  on 
to  victory.  Here  we  all  are,  all  that's  left, 
and  we  can't  be  here  long.  My  wife 
wouldn't  know  me.  Will  you  be  so  k-ind 
as  to  write  to  her,  lady?" 

For  an  instant  I  felt  too  shocked  to  reply. 
I  did  remember  him  now,  and  his  regi 
ment,  and  that  Sabbath  afternoon.  Dr.  Fay 
told  me  that  there  was  a  part  o:"  a  regi 
ment  in  that  house  just  getting  acclima 
ted  for  whom  my  cordial  was  the  thing. 
When  I  entered  I  thought  that  scarcely 
since  the  war  had  I  seen  so  pleasant  a 
sight.  There  sat,  or  rested  on  their  cots, 
all  the  convalescents  in  clean  attire,  and 
nearly  all  of  them  had  their  Testaments 
or  some  book  in  their  hands.  They  were 
from  the  farming  districts  of  northern 
Pennsylvania,  not  one  of  them  had  lost 
their  rural  home-look,  and  the  sight  of 
these  men  was  like  a  glimpse  of  home 
before  the  war.  I  can  never  forget  how 
their  faces  brightened,  nor  how  they 
smiled  upon  me.  And  there  was  not 
one  but  what  spoke  to  me  of  his  mother, 
sister,  or  wife,  and  many  thanked  me  in 
their  names  as  I  handed  them  the  glass 
of  cordial. 

Here  all  that  were  left  were  dying  oil 
the  wet  ground. 

"  I  don't  understand  it,"  I  said,  "  when 
I  saw  you  last  not  one  of  you  were  very 
sick.  It  seemed  as  if  you  would  all  be 
as  well  as  ever  in  a  few  days." 


EIRENE : 


"  It  seems  to  me  that  we  might  have 
been,"  said  the  man,  "  if  we  could  have 
stayed  in  that  dry  house;  but  we've  been 
moved  and  moved  from  one  wet  place  to 
another,  till  here  we  are.  I  took  the  fe 
ver  ;  our  regiment  and  doctor  have  gone, 
and  I  had  given  up  our  last  hope  till  I 
saw  you,  lady.  We've  always  called  you 
our  lady  since  that  Sunday  afternoon. 
So  many  times  the  boys  have  said:  'If 
our  lady  only  knew  how  we  were,  she 
would  help  us.' " 

"  If  I  could  only  have  known  before," 
I  thought,  but  I  did  not  say  it 

"  I  will  write  to  your  wife  and  do 
everything  in  my  power  for  you  all,"  I 
said. 

I  saw  him  shudder  as  his  back  came  in 
contact  with  that  of  his  next  compaion. 
•  "  He  is  dead,"  he  whispered,  with  a 
look  of  horror. 

I  bent  down  and  lifted  the  cape  of  the 
blue  overcoat  which  covered  his  com 
rade's  face.  It  was  true ;  he  was  dead. 
On  the  other  side  so  close  that  he'  touch 
ed  him  was  another  soldier  dying. 

There  was  nothing  to  be  done  but 
to  go  and  to  discover  the  condition  of 
all.  It  was  the  same  to  the  end  of  that 
long  tent;  feet  to  feet,  closely  packed, 
devoured  by  vermin,  and  lying  in  the 
water  of  the  soaked  ground,  were  two 
long  lines  of  the  soldiers  of  the  Union 
dying  and  dead.  Gray-haired  men,  men 
in  their  prime,  boys  almost  children,  so 
many  of  them  rosy  and  beautiful  in  their 
youth,  a  few  weeks  ago — here  they  were 
lying  upon  the  ground  in  the  last  ex 
tremity  of  neglect  and  suffering. 

To  me  these  are  the  saddest  days  of 
the  war ;  there  is  so  little  alleviation  to 
the  awful  suffering  which  surrounds  me. 
These  men  are  dying  for  lack  of  physi 
cians,  nurses  and  care.  If  twenty  other 
women  were  as  busy  as  I  am,  preparing 
broths  and  cordials,  walking  and  watch 
ing  from  morning  till  night,  there  would 
not  then  be  enough  to  care  for  these 
men.  We  hear  much  of  the  rights  of 
women.  It  seems  to  me  no  woman  need 
question  her  right  or  ask  what  her  work 
is  in  days  like  these.  I  do  all  that  I  can, 
and  it  is  so  little.  I  feel  as  if  I  would 
give  my  very  life  for  these  men,  and  yet 


I  cannot  save  them.  I  can  scarcely  look 
up  without  seeing  one  carried  forth  on  a 
stretcher,  wrapped  in  his  blue  overcoat, 
without  a  coffin,  without  a  prayer,  laid  in 
a  shallow  grave  scooped  out  from  among 
the  stones  on  the  hill.  They  die  so  fast 
there  is  scarcely  room  for  any  more. 
Their  graves  reach  from  the  hill-top 
down  to  the  road.  Their  names  are  all 
given  to  me,  even  when  I  cannot  attend 
them  personally.  The  most  heart-break 
ing  duty  comes  after  they  are  at  rest. 
The  vestibule  and  closets  of  the  little 
Lutheran  church  standing  mid-way  be 
tween  Bolivar  and  Harper's  Ferry,  and 
now  filled  with  wounded,  are  piled  with 
the  knapsacks  and  haversacks  of  dying 
and  dead  soldiers.  I  go  to  these  and 
open  them,  take  out  every  treasure  they 
contain,  and  with  a  letter  send  them  to 
the  friends  of  the  boy  who  owned  them. 
A  little  drummer  boy  died  yesterday.  I 
have  found  his  haversack ;  it  contained  a 
picture  of  himself,  taken  with  his  mother 
when  he  enlisted.  Such  a  rosy  boy !  1 
thought  as  I  looked  upon  him  yesterday, 
wasted  and  dead,  that  I  was  glad  that 
his  mother  could  never  know  how  he 
changed  before  he  died.  I  have  sent  his 
last  message  and  all  his  things  to  her. 
The  eloquence  of  these  worm-eaten, 
mouldy  bags  cannot  be  written.  Here 
is  the  piece  of  stony  bread,  uneaten,  the 
little  paper  of  coffee,  the  smoked  tin  cup 
in  which  it  was  boiled  over  the  hasty 
fire  on  the  eve  of  battle ;  here  is  the  let 
ter  sealed,  directed,  never  sent;  here  is 
the  letter  half  written,  never  ended,  be 
ginning  '•  Dear  wife,  how  I  want  to  see 
you,"  "  Dear  mother,  my  time  is  almost 
out;"  and  the  rusty  pen  just  as  it  was 
laid  in  the  half  filled  sheet  by  the  brave 
and  loving  hand  which  hoped  so  soon  to 
finish  it.  Here  are  scraps  of  patriotic 
poetry  carefully  copied  on  sheets  of 
paper  tinted  red,  white,  and  blue ;  here 
are  photographs  of  favorite  generals, 
and  photographs  of  the  loved  ones  at 
home ;  here  are  letters  full  of  heart 
breaking  love  and  of  sobbing  loyalty  to 
duty  and  of  holy  faith  and  cheer  written 
to  them  from  home ;  and  here  is  the  Tes 
tament  given  him  by  the  woman  that 
loved  him  best.  Mother,  these  are  all 


A  WOMAN'S  RIGHT. 


177 


mementoes  of  brave,  loving  life  gone 
out.  The  boys  who  owned  them  will 
never  go  back.  To  one  unfamiliar  with 
the  soldier's  life  these  relics  might  mean 
little.  To  me  they  mean  all  love,  all 
suffering,  -all  heroism.  Deeds  of  valor 
are  no  longer  dreams  gone  by.  We  live 
in  knightly  days ;  our  men  are  dauntless 
men.  Will  there  ever  be  one  to  write 
the  life  of  the  common  soldier.  His 
blood  buys  us  all  that  we  hold  dear — 
country,  home,  a  free  government,  the 
endless  privileges  of  a  free  people.  '  I 
ask  no  higher  privilege  than  to  serve 
him  living  and  to  honor  him  in  his 
grave. 

It  is  after  I  have  been  the  rounds  of 
ward  and  tent  that  I  come  into  this  old 
vestibule  and  sit  down  to  this  sacred 
task.  Sometimes  I  make  up  many  pack 
ages.  Sometimes  I  take  up  some  moth 
er's  or  sister's  letter,  and  it  brings  so 
much  back  to  me  that  I  can't  go  on. 
This  was  so  last  night.  It  must  have 
been  late,  but  I  did  not  know  it.  I 
looked  up  from  the  contents  of  the  knap 
sack  which  had  moved  me  so  much,  and 
for  the  first  time  realized  the  appalling 
loneliness  of  my  surroundings.  There 
were  the  high  walls  of  the  vestibule  all 
torn  with  bombshells,  its  dark  open  clos 
ets;  its  wide  floor  piled  high  with  old 
knapsacks  and  haversacks,  I  sitting  in  the 
midst  of  them  on  a  box,  with  no  light 
in  the  place  but  that  given  by  the  one 
tallow  candle  at  my  side,  which  threw 
its  feeble  and  flickering  rays  over  the 
open  bags  and  their  contents.  My  own 
feelings,  I  presume,  made  the  place  seem 
more  weird  and  desolate  than  ever  before. 
It  was  then  I  was  startled  by  the  sound 
of  horse's  feet  without,  and  it  seemed 
the  same  instant  that  the  door  opened 
and  Dr.  De  Peyster  entered.  I  thought 
him  many  miles  away,  and  cannot  tell 
whether  I  felt  more  astonishment  or  joy 
at  seeing  him. 

"  Sister  Eirene,"  he  said,  "  my  brigade 
leaves  Pleasant  Valley  to-morrow.  Be 
fore  it  moves  I  have  come  to  say  fare 
well.  I  did  not  feel  as  if  I  could  go  on 
till  I  had  seen  you  once  more." 

And  as  he  said  these  words  he  came 
forward,  and  looking  down  upon  the 


open   knapsacks  amid  which  I  sat,   I 
thought  that  his  face  grew  grave. 

"  I  have  missed  you  much  since  you 
went,"  I  answered.  "Every  hour  it  has 
seemed  if  you  could  only  have  staid  you 
would  have  lessened  the  awful  suffering 
of  the  men  in  the  tents." 

"  Yes,  I  could  have  done  something. 
It  is  the  result  of  the  army  moving  and 
of  the  medical  staff  being  broken  up. 
But  I  could  do  nothing  but  obey  orders 
and  go  with  my  brigade." 

"  I  know  it." 

"  I  certainly  could  have  worked  with 
more  heart  if  I  had  staid  behind,"  he  re 
plied.  "  It  did  me  good  to  know  that 
you  came  after  me  to  do  what  I  could 
not  do." 

What  I  once  heard  him  say  of  the 
army  nurse  would  come  into  my  mind, 
mother,  and  yet  it  was  the  same  to  me 
as  if  he  had  never  spoken  it. 

"  The  chances  of  war  are  many,"  he 
said.  "They  make  it  more  than  proba 
ble  that  we  may  never  meet  again.  What 
I  wanted  to  say  is,  that  while  I  live  I 
can  never  forget  you." 

"  While  I  live  I  can  never  forget  you," 
I  answered,  and  I  gave  him  my  hand  in 
farewell,  for  he  had  already  turned  to 
go. 

Without  another  word  he  departed. 
I  held  the  candle  in  the  open  door  as  he 
mounted  his  horse,  and  by  its  little  light 
flaring  out  into  the  night  I  watched  him 
ride  away. 

As  he  went  up  the  hill  which  rises  be 
tween  the  church  and  the  town  below, 
the  sight  of  him  brought  back  more 
powerfully  than  I  can  tell,  the  image  of 
the  man  who  used  to  ride  away  from  the 
little  house  at  home.  Mother,  I  have 
never  spoken  to  you  of  him.  There  was 
a  time  when  I  thought  I  never  could. 
But  this  outward  resemblance  forced 
upon  me  the  real  contrast.  What  did 
that  man  live  for  ?  For  what  this  ?  As 
I  looked  after  him  so  swiftly  passing  out 
of  my  sight,  perhaps  forever,  he  seemed 
to  me  to  be  the  realization  in  himself  of 
all  that  I  had  once  dreamed  another  man 
to  be.  He  is  my  kind  strong  friend, 
whose  life  stretches  far  away  from  mine. 
Probably  I  shall  never  see  him  again,  and 


178  EIRKNE: 

yet  I  thank  God  that  I  have  seen  him  He  is  the  manliest  man  that  I  have  ever 
and  known  him,  and  that  he  is  my  friend,  known.  I  reverence  all  men  more  be- 
that  he  was  so  kind  to  my  brother,  that  cause  I  know  him,  and  yet  I  remember 
he  has  been  kind  to  me,  that  I  can  I  wrote  you  that  I  did  not  like  him,  and 
always  remember  him  and  pray  for  him.  I  did  not  when  I  wrote  you  so. 


A  WOMAN'S  RIGHT. 


179 


CHAPTER  XXL 


THE  BEOrXNINU  OF  THE  EOT). 

AND  was  this  the  end  ?  No  one  was 
gladder  than  she  that  the  war  was  over, 
that  the  great  guns  whose  echoes  still 
seemed  to  float  out  from  the  mountain 
tops,  had  sent  forth  at  last  the  rever 
berations  of  peace.  And  yet  the  con 
sciousness  that  here  her  work  was  done, 
forced  her  thoughts  back  upon  herself. 
She  who  had  lived  so  long  and  devotedly 
for  others,  knew  not  now  how  to  begin 
to  live  for  herself.  The  work  that  she 
had  been  doing  made  all  mere  personal 
work  seem  poor  and  selfish.  She  was 
no  less  glad  to  live  for  her  loved  ones 
than  she  had  been  years  before,  but  it 
seemed  to  her  now  that  while  her  life 
would  encircle  them,  that  it  must  also 
reach  out  toward  something  more.  It 
was  a  moment  of  reaction.  The  un 
failing,  the  unflagging  power  to  do 
which  had  never  left  her  while  there 
was  anything  to  be  done,  now  that 
the  last  task  was  almost  accomplished, 
seemed  gone  from  her  forever.  An  in 
expressible  weariness  crept  over  her. 
She  had  lived  through  two  lives :  the 
first,  life  of  youth  and  of  love ;  the 
second,  life  of  devotion  and  of  moral 
heroism.  Now  for  a  moment  came 
weakness,  and  a  vague,  undefined  yearn 
ing  for  protection  and  rest.  "  I  am 
tired,"  she  said;  "it  would  be  sweet  to 
rest  if  I  could."  The  dream  of  her 
youth  came  back — a  memory,  it  was 
nothing  more.  And  what  is  sadder  than 
the  memory  of  the  very  sweetness  of 
life  lost  ?  What  more  mournful  than  the 
knowledge  that  you  have  survived  life's 
fondest  illusion  ?  It  swept  through  her 
like  a  shock  that  after  all  these  years, 
after  all  that  she  had  suffered  and  out 
lived,  if  she  could  have  it  all  back,  that 
early  dream,  it  would  be  nothing  to  her 
now.  What  could  such  a  love  as  Paul 
Mullane's  be  to  her  to-day  ?  Nothing. 


What  seemed  for  the  moment  too  hard 
to  be  borne  was  the  desolation  which 
it  had  left  behind.  Since  the  moment 
in  which  she  renounced  it  she  had  lived 
as  solitary  in  heart  as  if  she  alone  in 
habited  the  universe. 

She  had  just  left  the  two  graves  lying 
within  the  old  stone  wall  of  the  grave 
yard.  She  came  down  the  hillside  a 
little  way,  sat  down  under  the  shadow 
of  Jefferson's  Rock,  her  feet  in  the  new 
grass,  her  head  leaning  against  the  rude 
pillar  of  stone  which  supported  it.  She 
had  been  gazing  toward  "  the  getting 
out  place,"  as  she  called  it,  the  great 
gate  of  the  mountains  and  the  blue  vista 
of  sky  far  beyond.  It  seemed  a  long 
way  off,  this  country  of  hers — this  old- 
time  home,  this  far  back  life !  She  was 
tired,  she  was  lonely,  she  was  unloved  ! 
Suddenly  the  thought  came  to  her  that 
beside  her  father  and  mother  she  was 
necessary  to  no  one;  her  eyes  closed 
over  this  dreary  thought,  and  the  tears 
dropped  upon  her  cheeks.  Thus  the 
May  sun  dropping  down  behind  the 
mountains  left  her,  covering  her  face  in 
its  going  with  tender  light.  Thus  the 
south  wind  floating  down  the  valley 
came  to  her,  rippling  through  her  hair 
as  gently  as  through  the  grasses  at  her 
side.  Thus  the  wedded  rivers  sang  to 
her  in  glad  music  as  they  moved  in  con 
cert  together  to  the  ocean,  and  thus 
Pierre  De  Peyster  found  her.  for  he  had 
come  far  down  the  valley  to  find  her 
— and  her  alone.  He  went  to  the  hos 
pital  and  for  the  first  time  found  her 
absent,  not  at  her  old  post.  Her  work 
was  almost  gone.  Nearly  all  the  sick 
and  wounded  who  had  survived  had 
been  carried  to  their  homes  by  near 
friends  who  had  come  after  them.  The 
remaining  convalescents  in  a  few  weeks 
would  go,  and  the  hospital  be  broken 
up. 


180 


EIREME : 


"  Are  you  looking  for  Sister  Eirene  ?  " 
asked  one  of  the  invalids  who,  sunning 
himself  on  the  great  portico,  had  seen 
Dr.  De  Peyster  tie  his  horse  to  the  tree 
at  the  foot  of  it,  enter  the  hous3,  and 
then  come  out  with  a  disappointed  look 
upon  his  face. 

"  There  she  is  down  yonder,  Doctor, 
down  by  Jefferson's  Rock ;  I  saw  her  go 
down  there  more'n  an  hour  ago." 

She  was  taking  one  of  her  last  looks  at 
the  wonderful  picture  that  she  might  carry 
it  away  the  more  perfectly  to  hold  it  in 
her  memory  forever.  Thunder  of  battle, 
moving  armies,  the  dying,  the  dead,  her 
dead,  all  were  with  her  again  as  she 
looked  down  from  her  rocky  pinnacle, 
and  home,  her  home  awaited  her  at  last, 
far  on  beyond  the  dreamy  blue. 

"I  am  going  home,"  she  said  aloud. 
"  Yes,"  said  a  voice  behind  her,  and 
she  looked  up  into  the  face  of  Pierre  De 
Peyster. 

"I  have  been  looking  for  you,  Sister 
Eirene,"  he  said,  "  in  the  hospital.  I 
think  that  I  have  been  looking  for  you 
ever  since  I  was  born." 

The  last  tinge  of  color  faded  out  of 
the  lovely  face  as  of  old ;  but  not  as  of 
old  did  it  rush  back  in  rosy  bloom.  The 
deep  heart  drew  it  downward  and  held 
it  fast  in  its  deep  and  silent  current. 

She  answered  not. 

"  Now  I  look  upon  your  face  again  it 
seems  as  if  my  whole  life  had  been  a 
search  for  you,"  said  the  strong  man  in 
a  voice  sweet  and  solemn.  "I  never 
found  my  highest  self  till  I  found  you ; 
I  never  dreamed  how  holy  and  how 
precious  this  life  could  be,  until  I  knew 
you.  Are  you  glad  that  I  can  tell  you 
this  ?" 

"  I  am,"  and  the  woman's  eyes  looked 
up  and  the  woman's  soul,  looking 
through  them,  realized  how  rich  and 
wonderful  a  thing  is  the  gift  of  a  good 
man's  love. 

"  May  I  sit  down  here  and  tell  you 
what  is  in  my  heart  ? "  he  asked.  "  It 
seems  to  me  that  the  moment  has  come 
at  last  when  I  have  the  right  to  tell  it. 
I  did  not  think  so  three  years  ago.  Dur 
ing  the  war  I  thought  that  neither  men 
nor  women  who  had  devoted  themselves 


to  their  country  had  the  right  to  turn 
aside  to  seek  their  own  personal  happi 
ness.  I  thought  so  the  night  that  I  said 
good-by  to  you  in  the  old  church. 
The  future  looked  so  dark  it  looked 
more  than  doubtful  if  I  could  ever  tell 
you  how  very  dear  you  were  to.,  me,  in 
this  world.  Yet  I  thought  as  I  rode 
away  that  if  it  was  denied  me  in  this 
life,  that  I  would  tell  you  in  the  other ; 
if  not  until  eternity,  that  I  should  some 
where  seek  you  out  and  say  that  it  was 
you,  and  you  alone,  whom  I  had  sought 
through  all  my  mortal  years.  Tell 
me  Eirene,  have  you  thought  of  me 
since  I  went  up  the  valley  ?  " 

"  Now  I  see  you  I  know  I  have 
scarcely  ceased  to  think  of  you  since 
that  night,"  she  said.  "  I  remember  as 
I  watched  you  ride  away  in  the  dark 
ness,  that  for  a  moment  it  seemed  to  me 
as  if  everything  in  the  world  had  gone, 
and  when  I  went  back  to  the  knapsacks 
as  if  everybody  in  the  world  was  dead." 

"Eirene,  can  you  realize  what  it  is  to 
me  to  find  you  at  last,  at  last  ?  What  it 
is  to  me  who  have  sought  you  all  my 
life  ?  " 

"  I  realize  what  it  is  to  me  to  feel  as  if 
I  had  found  that  which  I  have  sought 
all  my  life,  in  you  1  truth,  honor,  high 
manhood.  /  believe  in  you  !  " 

"  What  a  compensation  for  everything 
I  have  ever  wished  in  this  world  I  find 
in  your  words.  Can  I  ask  you  without 
intruding  what  is  your  plan  for  the 
future  ?  " 

The  old  look  of  pain  crept  over  her 
face.  She  looked  up  to  him  as  if  his 
question  had  suddenly  removed  her  far 
from  him.  The  joy  of  seeing  him,  the 
exquisite  happiness  which  his  undrearn- 
ed-of  words  had  brought  her,  the  new 
rapture  springing  above  weariness  and 
loneliness  to  find  herself  once  more  be 
loved,  had  in  their  birth  annihilated  her 
past.  It  was  as  if  she  had  had  no  past. 
Life  and  love  were  born  anew  in  the 
perfect  present.  All  went  out  as  sud 
denly  while  his  inquiry  brought  back 
her  history.  She  was  not  ashamed  of  it. 
It  was  not  pride  which  made  her  shrink 
from  telling  him  her  exact  position.  It, 
was  the  wound  of  the  old  injury. 


A  WOMAN'S  RIGHT. 


181 


Even  now  she  could  not  forget  that 
another  had  turned  from  her,  had  been 
ashamed  of  her  because  she  was  poor. 
If  this  could  be  so  now,  she  wanted  to 
know  it;  and  yet — yet  if  this  man,  who 
seemed  so  noble,  so  lifted  above  all  little 
ness,  if  he  could  see  her  differently, 
treat  her  differently  because  she  was 
below  him  in  social  condition,  no  other 
could  fill  his  place  in  manhood ;  but  she 
must  know  it  at  once. 

She  was  silent  an  instant,  and  when 
she  spoke  her  voice  had  lost  all  the 
sweet  tones  of  companionship  which  it 
had  when  he  and  she  had  greeted  each 
other,  as  two  souls  might  have  done 
who  were  alone  in  the  world. 

"  I  am  very  poor,"  she  said.  "  I  have 
always  been  poor.  My  only  support 
comes  from  the  labor  of  my  hands.  I 
was  a  book-keeper  in  a  furnishing  shop 
in  New  York  when  the  war  began.  My 
employer  has  been  very  kind,  and  holds 
my  position  open  to  me  on  my  return. 
As  soon  as  the  hospital  here  is  broken 
up,  I  expect  to  go  back  to  my  old  place." 

She  made  this  revelation  in  a  clear, 
cold  voice,  but  with  downcast  eyes, 
which  she  lifted  as  she  ceased,  fully  pre 
pared  to  see  a  frightful  look  of  revulsion 
if  not  of  repulsion  on  the  face  of  her  lis 
tener. 

Instead,  the  expression  of  his  eyes,  full 
of  mingled  mirth  and  delight  such  as  she 
had  never  seen  there  before,  filled  her  with 
astonishment.  It  was  perfectly  plain  to 
see  that  Pierre  De  Peyster  was  both 
amused  and  delighted. 

"  You  speak  as  if  I  could  never  forgive 
you  for  being  poor,"  he  said,  "  as  if  it 
were  a  crime  for  which  you  are  horribly 
to  blame.  I  am  glad  that  you  are  poor. 
I  am  glad  that  every  one  belonging  to 
you  is  poor.  I  am  glad  that  you  have 
nothing  but  yourself.  All  my  life  I  have 
been  searching  for  the  woman  who  held 
in  her  own  nature  the  only  treasure  that  I 
wanted.  What  can  I  say  to  you  to  make 
you  believe  that  you  are  needed  very  much 
more  somewhere  else  than  in  your  old 
place  ?  In  another  part  of  New  York, 
in  a  dingy  old  street,  there  is  a  dingy 
old  house.  It  was  pleasant  once,  full  of 
children  and  home  cheer.  That  was  a 


long  time  ago.  Now  the  greater  part 
of  every  year  it  is  shut  up.  Sometimes 
a  lady  and  her  adopted  daughter  occupy 
a  portion  of  it.  Before  the  war  an  old 
bachelor  had  his  rooms  there.  He  use4 
to  have  wonderful  visions  in  those  old 
rooms  of  somebody  who  would  come 
some  time  and  brighten  up  the  old  house, 
and  brighten  up  him,  and  do  something 
towards  civilizing  and  making  a  man  of 
him.  He  looked  among  all  the  ladies 
whom  he  knew,  and  he  knew  a  good 
many,  to  find  one  whom  he  thought 
would  be  willing  to  spend  her  life  in  the 
old  house  and  do  this  missionary  work 
on  him,  and  there  was  not  one.  No,  he 
did  not  believe  that  there  was  one  in 
what  was  called  '  his  set '  who  would  be 
contented  with  the  old  house ;  and  when  it 
came  to  the  final  test,  there  was  not  one 
whom  he  was  willing  should  try.  No 
body  cared  for  it  as  he  did.  Even  his 
sister  wanted  to  leave  it  and  go  up  town. 
All  his  friends  thought  him  a  fool  because 
he  did  not  sell  it  and  make  tens  of  thou 
sands  of  dollars  by  the  sale.  But  he  waa 
born  in  the  old  house,  his  father  and 
.  mother  lived  and  died  in  it,  his  grand 
father  and  grandmother  lived  and  died 
in  it  before  them.  Although  it  was  very 
un-New  Yorkish  to  care  at  all  for  such 
associations,  he  could  not  shake  them  out 
of  his  fibre ;  there  was  not  a  brick  or 
rafter  or  cobweb  in  the  old  place  that  he 
did  not  care  for;  and  as  for  the  musty 
old  trees  in  the  little  park  before  it,  he 
would  not  part  with  one  of  them  for  all 
Wall  street.  Can't  I  interest  you  in  the 
old  place  ?  Now,  wouldn't  it  be  as  pleas 
ant  to  go  there  and  brighten  its  old 
rooms  up,  and  develop  a  warped  old 
bachelor  into  something  more  human, 
even  though  you  took  his  name  and 
found  out  all  of  his  faults,  as  it  would  be 
to  cast  up  accounts  in  a  furnishing  shop 
year  after  year  ?  Can't  you  say  that  it 
would  be?  I'm  awfully  lonesome, 
Eirene." 

The  blended  forlornness  and  humor  in 
his  look  and  tone  were  irresistible. 

In  spite  of  herself  they  made  Eirene's 
answer  a  gay  laugh.  The  idea  of  this 
proud  man  pleading  in  such  a  way  to  her 
was  comical  as  well  as  delightful. 


182 


EIRENE : 


"  You  make  the  old  house  seem  very 
pleasant,"  she  said.  "  I  like  old  houses 
full  of  histories.  It  seems  as  if  I  had  seen 
yours.  It  is  just  like  the  one  in  which 
my  sister  lives.  I  did  not  finish  what  I 
was  going  to  tell  you,  Dr.  De  Peyster. 
I  have  one  young  sister;  she  is  very 
beautiful,  and  has  been  adopted  by  a 
rich  lady  who  lives  in  New  York.  The 
lady's  name  is  Stuyvesant.  I've  been  to 
her  house  to  see  Pansj7,  and  the  one  you 
tell  of  seems  like  it." 

"  Very  likely.  Pansy  1  Hum  !  Stuy- 
vesant  is  my  sister's  name.  It  seems 
that  your  sister  and  mine  already  know 
each  other  well." 

As  he  made  this  declaration,  certainly 
in  an  annoyed  tone,  all  the  light  of  happi 
ness  in  Eirene's  face  died. 

He  could  have  said  nothing  scarcely 
which  would  have  seemed  to  have 
divided  her  from  him  so  completely. 

Then  Dr.  De  Peyster,  who  in  the 
ruined  old  hospital  and  in  the  field  tents 
had  gone  in  and  out  among  the  sick 
and  wounded  for  months,  till  he  had 
come  to  seem  like  a  brother  in  the  same 
work ;  who  on  the  battle-field  had  shared 
the  dangers  of  the  soldier;  who  had 
worked  hard  and  fared  rudely;  he  was 
the  brother  of  the  lofty  lady  who  had 
separatefl  her  only  sister's  life  from  hers! 
The  face  of  Cornelia  Stuyvesant  as  she 
saw  it  last — remote  and  cold  in  its  very 
kindness — made  her  shiver  sitting  here 
now.  A  moment  before  he  had  seemed 
so  near  in  his  simple  manhood,  his  sym 
pathy,  his  humanity,  his  tender  love — 
but  now  so  far  from  her  in  her  low 
estate.  This  lovely  and  implacable  sis 
ter,  what  would  she  say  when  she  heard 
his  story  ?  The  very  look  in  her  eyes 
would  be  sufficient  to  divide  them  for 
ever. 

But  Pierre  De  Peyster's  present  an 
noyance  sprang  from  a  cause  undreamed 
of  by  Eirene.  He  was  not  a  saint  in 
patience,  and  like  many  another  brave 
man  who  could  meet  death  without 
flinching,  be  would  be  perfectly  fretted 
by  a  very  little  matter.  While  Eirene, 
in  silent  woe,  was  surveying  the  image 
of  his  sister,  he  with  much  irritation  was 
recalling  the  likeness  of  hers. 


"  Well,  it's  some  satisfaction  to  have  it 
explained,"  he  said.  "  I've  always  been 
tormented  by  the  resemblance,  because 
it  was  unaccountable.  I  didn't  want 
you  to  look  like  her,  or  anybody  else. 
But  it's  only  a  faint  family  look  ;  I  think 
I  can  bear  it,  now  that  I  know  what  it 
is.  Why  on  earth  didn't  Coma  tell  me 
that  her  adopted  had  a  sister,"  he  was 
going  to  say,  but  did  not,  out  of  regard 
to  Eirene. 

"  I  understand  it  quite,"  he  said  to 
himself.  "  Much  good  your  plotting  has 
done  you,  Mrs.  Corna,  It  will  teach 
you  that  a  De  Peyster  should  never 
plot." 

"  Then  you  have  really  seen  the  old 
house  ?  "  he  asked,  with  the  look  of  ir 
ritation  still  on  his  face,  which  Eirene 
thought  sprung  from  a  very  different 
cause  than  the  true  one. 

"  Yes,  sir,  I  went  there  a  few  times 
to  see  my  sister.  It  was  there  that  I 
bade  her  good-by.  Mrs.  Stuyvesant  was 
very  kind.  She  adopted  Pansy  as  her 
own  daughter.  This  removed  her  into 
a  sphere  of  life  very  different  from  mine. 
I  thought — I  thought  it  might  annoy 
Mrs.  Stuyvesant,  although  she  was  so 
kind,  if  I  came  often  to  suggest  the  con 
trast.  You  know  there  was  a  differ 
ence  ?  " 

"A  decided  difference,"  answered 
Pierre,  still  intent  upon  his  own  view  of 
that  difference. 

"Dr.  De  Peyster,  it  is  hard,  but  I 
want  you  to  realize  all  that  difference. 
It  seems  as  if  you  could  hardly  know 
what  a  struggle  life  may  be  to  a  woman, 
poor,  imperfectly  educated,  with  a  natu 
ral  shrinking  from  publicity  and  respon 
sibility,  who  yet  has  no  way,  and  no 
right  to  live  in  the  world  save  by  her 
own  unaided  labor.  Do  you  know  how 
hard  and  meagre  life  may  be  to  such  a 
one?" 

"  I  begin  to  know  it,"  he  answered. 

"  I  have  walked  the  street  hungry  be 
cause  I  feared  debt  even  for  bread.  But 
good  help  came,  and,  for  me,  I  am  rich 
now." 

"  How  rich  ?  " 

"  When  the  war  began  I  had  a  little 
money  saved  for  Win.  After  I  becamt 


A  WOMAN'S  RIGHT. 


183 


book-keeper,  I  had  good  wages,  as  wo 
men's  wages.  My  employer's  two  sons 
went  into  the  army.  This  softened  his 
heart  beyond  expression.  When  I  told 
him  that  I  must  go,  he  said  to  me :  '  G-o ; 
God  bless  you !  Your  salary  shall  be 
the  same  as  if  you  staid.'  I  have  never 
been  paid  as  a  nurse — I  could  not  take 
it;  but  for  myself  I  have  needed  almost 
nothing.  My  salary  has  gone  to  my 
father  and  mother,  and  toward  the  pay 
ment  for  the  little  homestead  which  had 
passed  into  the  possession  of  a  friend. 
It  is  ours  again.  The  money  that  made 
the  last  payment  was  the  money  saved 
for — Win." 

"  Then  you  are  really  a  property- 
holder,"  answered  Pierre,  with  the  mer 
riment  coming  back  into  his  eyes.  "I 
hope  it  isn't  worth  much." 

Eirene's  impulse  was  to  feel  injured  at 
such  an  unfeeling  remark,  but  the  bright 
ening  face  before  her  forbade  it. 

"  It  could  not  seem  worth  mutih  to 
you,"  she  said,  "  but  it  is  worth  more 
than  all  the  rest  of  the  world  to  me." 

"  Then  I  can't  interest  you  in  my 
house  ? " 

"  0,  yes,"  was  the  reply,  with  a  quick 
blush  and  laugh.  "  When  I  saw  its 
great  pictures,  and  all  its  old  family 
relics,  I  thought  it  was  the  most  inter 
esting  house  I  was  ever  in." 

"  Thank  you." 

"  There  is  such  a  contrast  between 
your  house  and  ours.  Ours  is  so  low 
and  small  and  poor.  Yet  there  I  was 
born  ;  it  is  the  only  home  I  ever  had. 
But  you  can't  know  the  difference  be 
tween  it  and  yours." 

"Why,  I  know  all  about  it.  I've 
seen  your  house,"  he  said.  "  And  I  did 
not  see  anything  so  dreadful  about  it. 
You  could  not  have  had  a  better  place  to 
have  been  born  in,  Eirene.  You  took  in 
the  strength  and  freedom  and  freshness 
of  the  mountain-tops  with  your  baby 
breath ;  don't  you  know  it?  " 

"  No.     But  you  never  were  there  1 " 

"  0  yes  I  was  ;  I  was  there  with 
my  sister  at  those  much  advertised 
springs,  and  I  saw  your  sister  waiting 
at  the  gate  for  her  fortune  to  come  to 
her,  and  I  sat  in  the  carriage  consider 


ably  fretted  while  my  sister  talked  with 
yours." 

Eirene  was  covered  with  confusion 
at  this  information.  She  was  afflicted 
because  she  did  not  understand  at  all 
why  he  should  have  been  fretted  while 
his  sister  talked  with  Pansy 

"I  can  tell  you  something  more  stun 
ning  still.  I  saw  you  before  I  saw  your 
sister." 

"0,  no!  you  couldn't.  I  was  never 
at  Hilltop  after  the  Pinnacle  House  was 
opened." 

"I  did  not  see  you  there.  I  saw  you 
months  before  at  Trinity  Church.  You 
•  seemed  awestruck  and  rapt  in  the  service. 
It  was  this  that  first  attracted  my  notice. 
I  am  sorry  to  say  that  I  was  very  un- 
devotional  myself,  and  was  gazing  about 
after  the  manner  of  undevotional  men. 
The  apparition  of  an  absolute  worship 
per  in  a  New  York  church  was  enough 
to  fix  any  man's  gaze.  Do  you  remem 
ber  the  time,  Eirene  ?  " 

How  well  she  remembered  it !  How 
often  she  had  shut  her  eyes  till  all 
came  back,  the  organ's  anthem  rolling 
through  the  nave ;  the  altar-boys'  chant 
flooding  the  arches  with  sweet  reverbe 
ration;  the  trees  swaying  against  the 
stained  windows ;  the  hush  of  the  atmos 
phere;  the  thrill  of  worship  which  she 
felt. 

"  I  can't  tell  you  how  often  that  hour 
has  come  back,"  she  said,  "  nor  what  it  has 
been  to  me  amid  these  awful  Virginia 
Sabbaths.  But  I  could  not  recall  any 
person  that  I  met  there." 

"  I  know  it.  You  didn't  see  anybody. 
You  were  a  worshipper.  But  I  was  a 
godless  fellow.  I  only  went  to  church 
to  please  my  sister.  As  a  slight  com 
pensation,  after  the  reading  of  the  ser 
vice  I  would  study  the  people  sitting  on 
the  benches  in  the  aisles,  settle  on 
their  nativity,  temporal  condition,  etc., 
as  they  were  usually  strangers.  I  could 
not  place  you  at  once.  At  first,  all 
that  I  saw  was  that  you  were  weary 
and  worn;  that  your  clothes  were  plain, 
if  not  poor.  I  did  not  even  think  that 
you  were  young.  The  light  from  the 
great  window  falling  on  you  seemed  to 
bring  a  whole  history  out  upon  youi 


184 


EIRENE : 


face.  At  once  it  interested  me  because 
it  baffled  me.  I  could  not  read  it,  but 
the  longer  I  looked  the  more  I  wanted 
to.  At  last  I  grew  almost  annoyed,  for 
in  spite  of  myself  it  seemed  as  if  some 
thing  within  me  said,  '  It  is  she.'  No, 
I  declared;  and  yet  answered  my  heart, 
'It  is  like  her.  It  is  what  she  would 
have  been  had  she  passed  youth  and 
missed  every  human  joy.'  I  knew  you, 
and  yet  I  knew  you  not.  My  spiritual 
perceptions  were  half  blinded  by  a  thou 
sand  traditions  and  fancies.  I  was  a  scep 
tic  of  women,  of  all  the  women  whom  I 
had  met,  through  my  very  worship  of 
one  imagined  woman  whom  I  longed  to 
meet  but  had  never  seen.  One  thing  I 
can't  remember  of  that  afternoon,  that  is 
one  word  of  Dr.  H.'s  sermon;  but  I  do 
remember  how  absolutely  absurd  I 
seemed  to  myself  as  I  stepped  into  the 
carriage  with  my  sister,  and  was  con 
scious  of  a  slight  pang  of  regret  as  I 
caught  my  last  glimpse  of  you  in  the 
crowd." 

"  What  you  say  sounds  like  a  story," 
said  Eirene." 

"You  in  the  church,"  said  Pierre  De 
Peyster,  "  were  just  like  a  passing  vision. 
One  sees  hundreds  of  them  in  the  great 
city  if  you  study  the  human  life  around 
you  at  all.  If  I  had  never  seen  anything 
to  remind  me  of  you  again,  your  face 
might  have  faded  out  at  last.  As  it  was, 
I  only  thought  of  it  among  a  thousand 
other  things.  But  the  next  June,  when 
I  went  to  the  Pinnacle  House  with 
Corn  a,  there  I  was  confronted  by  a 
reminder  of  it  at  the  gate  of  a  little  out 
of  the  way  house  hundreds  of  miles  from 
Trinity  Church.  Yet  the  face  there  was 
so  much  younger,  fresher,  and  unworn 
than  the  other,  that  in  some  unaccount 
able  way,  instead  of  being  better  pleased 
I  was  provoked  by  it,  as  if  (I  could  not 
explain  how)  it  was  doing  the  first  face 
an  injury.  I  think  this  was  at  the  bot 
tom  of  my  opposition  to  Corna's  adopt 
ing  Pansy.  The  resemblance  always 
irritated  me." 

"Why  don't  you  ask  me  where  I  saw 
you  next?  "  asked  Dr.  De  Peyster  after  a 
pause  which  Eirene  spent  in  deep  medita 
tion,  instead  of  asking  a  single  question. 


"  It  must  have  been  in  the  hospital, 
she  said. 

"How  was  I  ever  to  see  you  in  the 
hospital  under  that  trough  that  you  had 
on  your  head  ?  I  felt  angry  every  time 
that  I  saw  you  in  the  ward,  and  at 
tributed  it  wholly  to  my  hostility  to 
female  nurses.  I  believe  now  it  was 
really  because  you  always  wore  such  a 
poke  of  a  bonnet  that  I  never  could  see 
your  face  to  make  up  my  mind  about  it." 

The  tone  of  injury  in  which  this  decla 
ration  was  made  amused  Eirene  more 
even  than  Pierre's  mirth  had  done. 

"  That  bonnet  was  a  good  friend  to  me," 
she  said.  "  I  can't  tell  you  how  many 
times  I  blessed  it  for  hiding  my  face." 

"  Won't  you  ask  me  where  I  saw  you 
the  next  time?  Is  it  possible  that  I  live 
to  behold  a  woman  without  curiosity  ?" 

"  Where  did  you  see  me  the  next  time, 
Dr.  De  Peyster?"  said  Eirene  in  an 
amused  voice. 

"  Where !  but  stirring  soup  in  that  little 
hut  upon  the  hill.  The  bonnet  had  really 
fallen  off  as  far  as  the  back  of  the  chair, 
and  that  was  the  first  sight  I  ever  had  of 
the  nurse's  face  against  whom  I  had  been 
making  war.  I  did  not  like  army  nurses. 
As  a  class  they  had  made  me  much 
trouble.  They  defied  discipline,  they 
flirted  with  the  officers,  in  many  instances 
they  injured  the  men.  It  was  the  last 
class  on  earth  in  which  I  should  have 
looked  for  her,  the  only  one  whom  I 
could  have  prayed  to  be  my  wife.  Yet, 
when  I  saw  her,  she  was  an  army  nurse! 
Yet  it  was  before  I  saw  you  at  all,  that  I 
told  Fay  that  you  could  stay." 

"  Yes,  you  said  that  I  could  stay  be 
cause  I  could  make  soup."  said  Eirene 
with  that  touch  of  perversity  inherent  in 
the  loveliest  of  women. 

"0  Eirene!  How  can  you  bring 
a  man  down  from  the  most  beatific 
vision  of  his  life  to  such  a  contemplation 
of  his  baser  self.  I  was  hungry.  I  did 
want  the  soup.  But  when  I  saw  you,  it 
was  not  of  soup  that  I  thought,  though 
I  am  sure  you  were  stirring  it." 

"  No,  it  was  sago.1' 

"  Which  I  detest,  that  very  moment 
did  I  not  pick  a  white  rose  and  send  it  to 
Sister  Eirene  ?  Could  I  have  done  any- 


A  WOMAN'S  RIGHT. 


185 


thing  more  romantic  if  I  had  never  hun 
gered  for  soup  in  my  life  ?  " 

"  Then  it  was  you  who  sent  the  white 
rose.  How  glad  I  am.  I  have  it  and 
shall  keep  it  all  my  life,"  exclaimed  Ei- 
rene  in  supreme  delight. 

"  Then  you  are  appeased  !  But  how 
on  earth  did  you  know  that  I  said  you 
could  stay  and  make  soup  ?  " 

"  And  kill  the  men  ?  "  added  Eirene. 
I  was  rolling  bandages  the  other  side 
of  the  partition,  and  heard  all  that  you 
said  to  Dr.  Fay.  Even  the  pasteboard  in 
the  bonnet  was  not  thick  enough  to  shut 
it  out." 

"And  you  thought  me  a  brute;  and 
very  unreasonable  ?  "  asked  Pierre  in  a 
discomfited  tone. 

"No,  I  thought  you  prejudiced  and 
tyrannical.  I — I  did  not  like  you  then, 
Dr.  De  Peyster." 

"  You  didn't  (forlornly)  ?  I  hope  your 
c  pinion  and  feelings  have  changed  ?  " 

"My  feelings  have  entirely." 

"  And  not  your  opinion  ?  That  comes 
of  loving  a  woman  strong  minded  enough 
to  have  an  opinion.  See  what  a  direful 
thing  it  is  when  it  is  turned  to  one's  own 
disadvantage." 

"  But  my  opinion  is  very  much  modi 
fied.  I  think  still  that  you  could  be 
prejudiced,  could  be  tyrannical,  but  that 
there  is  a  nature  in  you  so  noble  and 
kind  that  you  very  seldom  are.  " 

"  Thank  you  for  the  opinion  modified. 
I  begin  to  breathe  again.  Truly,  Eirene, 
it  seems  now  as  if  the  most  dreadful  thing 
that  could  happen  to  me,  would  be  to 
lose  your  good  opinion.  Hereafter  I 
shall  live  to  deserve  it." 

"  And  I  to  deserve  yours." 

"  Imagine  how  you  will  have  to  work 
for  it.  But  let  us  decide  about  that  ar 
my  nurse,  the  average  one  I  mean.  My 
opinion  of  her  is  not  even  modified.  Thus 
you  will  think  me  prejudiced  still.  Shall 
we  agree  to  differ?  I  protest  that  I  be 
lieve  only  in  the  exception,  and  her  name 
is  Sister  Eirene." 

"  May  I  say  that  I  think  you  mistak 
en?"  said  Eirene,  with  deep  feeling. 
"  You  are  too  generous  to  me,  and  not 
just  toothers.  I  have  tried  to  do  my 
duty  Dr.  De  Peyster,  and  have  loved  it: 


many  thousand  women  during  all  the 
war  have  tried  to  do  the  same,  and  have 
done  it,  and  it  seems  to  me  true  that 
daughters  give  up  more  than  sons,  for 
they  give  up  their  brothers." 

'"  Yes,  in  your  sense  they  do.  But  we 
must  agree  to  differ.  You  cannot  make 
yourself  in  my  eyes  but  the  exceptional 
woman,  the  flower  of  all  your  race.  Your 
very  name  signifies  '  peace.'  In  the 
simple  thought  of  you  I  find  it." 

"  I  wish  I  could  tell  you  how  you  bless 
me  in  your  words.  I  wish  you  could 
know  what  they  will  be  to  me  hereafter, 
when  I  cannot  see  you.  How  I  shall 
bless  you  for  them.  How  I  shall  find  it 
easier  to  reach  put  toward  every  good, 
however  weak  or  lonely  I  may  be,  because 
you  have  believed  in  me  and  have  cared 
for  me." 

"  Eirene,"  said  Pierre  De  Peyster,  and 
he  fixed  his  eyes  upon  her  in  a  searching 
gaze,  "I  used  to  say  that  no  woman 
lived  who  was  free  from  affectations  in 
her  dealings  with  men.  I  should  say 
now  that  you  were  trying  me  thus,  if  I 
did  not  see  that  you  mean  and  feel  every 
word  that  you  utter.  Yet  I  cannot  un 
derstand  you ;  if  you  cannot  love  me,  I 
do;  but  if  you  can,  I  cannot  imagine 
any  reason  on  earth  why  we  should 
finally  be  separated." 

"  Pardon  me,  Dr.  De  Peyster.  Have 
you  yet  taken  time  to  think  of  all  that 
separates  us?  For  nearly  four  years 
you  have  been  in  camp  and  field.  When 
you  find  yourself  in  that  great  proud 
city  again,  you  will  see  life  from  a  dif 
ferent  position ;  then  you  can  realize 
how  much  there  is  to  separate  us." 

"  You  disappoint  me,  Eirene,"  he  ex 
claimed  passionately.  "  I  thought — but  I 
was  a  fool — that  you  would  understand 
me  better.  I  thought,  presumptuous  as 
I  was,  that  I  had  only  to  present  myself 
to  the  woman  whom  I  love,  and  that 
she  would  read  my  heart  as  I  knew  it, 
by  a  divine  intuition.  I  thought  that 
the  mere  conventionalities  of  surface  so 
ciety  would  look  as  poor  to  her  as  they 
do  to  me ;  that  when  I  said  it  is  for  you 
that  I  have  sought  all  my  life,  that  she 
could  say:  'It  is  for  you  alone  that  I 
have  waited.'  Surely  you  don't  take 


186 


EIRENE  : 


me  for  a  boy  filled  with  a  sudden  fancy. 
Your  image  has  grown  into  my  heart 
hour  by  hour,  day  by  day,  and  year  by 
year,  till  I  should  not  know  where  to 
begin  to  tear  you  out.  and  I  have  no 
power  to  do  it.  What  disappoints  me 
in  you  is  this,  Eirene,  that  against  such 
eternal  facts  as  these  you  can  put  the 
poor  little  facts  of  external  condition.  I 
hold  that  if  a  man  and  woman  believe 
in  each  other,  and  love  each  other, 
and  have  chosen  each  other  out  of  all 
the  world,  that  in  their  manhood  and 
womanhood  they  are  equal,  that  no  con 
dition  of  wealth  or  poverty  can  make 
the  one  greater  or  the  other  less.  I 
thought  that  this  would  be  as  true  to 
you  as  to  me.  And  yet  I  will  not  blame 
you  if  you  accept  the  average  standard 
of  the  world." 

"  How  can  you  blame  me  when  I  say 
to  you  that  I  know  I  am  no£your  equal," 
she  declared.  "  I  am  not  your  equal 
in  strength,  in  intellect,  in  culture,  nor 
in  power  of  any  sort.  I  am  not  your 
equal  in  anything  save  in  my  purpose  to 
do  the  best  I  can,  and  to  make  the  most 
of  all  my  little  life." 

"  0,  how  blind  you  are  I  Then  I  am 
not  your  equal  in  any  attribute  that  can 
lift  a  human  creature  near  to  Q-od.  Yet 
I  am  disappointed  that  I  seeing  all  this  so 
plain  you  do  not  seem  to  perceive  it  at 
all,  that  it  is  our  opinion  and  feeling 
toward  each  other  alone  which  must 
determine  our  relation,  not  the  conven 
tional  judgment  of  society  on  our  rela 
tive  external  positions." 

"I  do  see  this  as  you  do,"  said  Eirene, 
slowly  and  painfully.  "  There  was  a  time 
when  the  thought  that  any  one  might 
feel  differently,  could  not  have  entered 
my  mind.  I  believed  that  truth  and 
honor  and  devotion  could  make  a  man 
and  woman  equal,  through  their  love. 
I  believe  this  still,  and  yet  I  must  tell 
you — I  have  tried  to  tell  you  from  the 
beginning  that  I  was  engaged  in  marriage 
once  to  one  who  thought  differently. 
He  came  to  be  ashamed  of  that  engage 
ment,  to  regret  it  because — I  was  poor, 
because  he  was  ashamed  of  my  associa 
tions  and  surroundings.  I  could  never 
live  through  such  an  experience  again 


— it  seems  as  if  I  could  not.  I  would 
rather  live  as  I  am — alone  all  my  life, 
I  feel  as  if  you  could  never  fail  any  one 
who  trusted  in  you,"  she  said,  lifting  her 
large  confiding  gaze  full  upon  his  face. 
"  I  believe  in  you,  and  yet  I  shrink  from 
ever  putting  any  man  to  such  a  test 
again  for  my  sake." 

"  Now  I  understand,"  he  answered. 
"This  is  hard,  Eirene — do  you  know 
how  hard  ? — for  a  man  to  feel  that  he 
has  saved  his  whole  heart  and  life  for 
one  woman,  only  to  have  her  tell  him 
that  at  any  time  in  hers  there  was 
another  who  had  a  claim  upon  her  affec 
tions  and  her  hand  ?  " 

"  Yes,  I  know  how  hard  it  is  for  you 
to  hear  it  by  the  pain  I  feel  in  telling  it. 
Yet  I  want  to  tell  you  every  thing, 
every  thing  about  it,"  she  said. 

"Tell  me,"  he  answered.  "Now  is 
the  time  to  hear  it." 

She  told  him  all — all  her  life,  from  the 
hour  that  she  left  her  father's  house  to 
the  moment  when  she  shut  her  eyes  in 
farewell  upon  Paul  Mallaue, — told  him 
without  one  word  of  exaggeration  or 
reservation,  the  simple  truth  in  a  voice 
quivering  with  the  tears  that  she  would 
not  shed.  As  she  ended  she  leaned  a 
perfectly  colorless  face  against  the  blue 
rock  beside  which  she  sat.  and  looking 
up  to  him  once,  the  lids  closed  slowly 
again  over  the  large  eyes  with  the  old 
look  of  renunciation. 

"It  makes  no  difference,"  he  said, 
looking  upon  her  face.  "  It  seems  to  me 
that  nothing  in  heaven  or  on  earth  could 
make  any  difference,  because  I  love  you'." 

As  she  heard  these  words  she  opened 
her  eyes  wide  and  looked  upon  him  as  if 
she  were  listening  to  him  in  a  dream. 

"  And  you  loved  him !  You  loved  him, 
Eirene.  How  could  you  love  him  and  I 
in  the  world?" 

"Yes,  I  loved  him.  I  was  scarcely 
seventeen.  Then  I  must  have  loved  any 
one  who  seemed  so  far  above  me,  and  so 
kind  to  me  as  at  first  he  was.  And  yet 
I  loved,  I  learned  at  last,  not  him,  but 
that  which  he  seemed  to  me  to  be,  that 
which  he  in  the  end  showed  me  he  was 
not.  It  almost  broke  my  heart,  it  al 
most  took  my  life — not  the  loss  of  a 


A  WOMAN'S  RIGHT. 


187 


lover,  but. the  loss  of  the  man  in  whom 
I  had  believed.  I  had  believed  that  I 
loved  truth  and  honor  and  all  nobility 
.  in  him.  When  he  proved  that  they  were 
1  not  in  him,  not  for  me,  I  loved  them 
still,  though  I  did  not  know  where  they 
had  gone.  It  was  another  Paul  that  I 
loved,  not  the  one  whom  I  saw,  or  whose 
voice  I  heard.  I  have  always  known 
that  I  must  love  again  what  I  thought  I 
loved  in  him.  if  I  ever  found  them  again. 
But  I  have  never  sought  them;  I  have 
never  found  them,  not  for-  me,  not  till 
now.  I  feel  as  if  they  had  come  back 
to  me  again,  all  glorified  with  your  true 
and  tender  love,  and  it  seems  too  much. 
I  am  like  one  dazzled,  and  afraid  as  if 
this  great  gift  could  not  be  for  me.  All 
that  has  gone  before,  all  that  I  have  suf 
fered,  seems  but  a  preparation  and  a  dis 
cipline  for  it.  One  must  grow  through 
loss  and  loneliness  and  suffering  to  the 
capacity  for  affection  which  I  feel  now. 
I  cannot  trifle.  There  is  room  in  my 
nature  and  my  life  but  for  one  supreme 
love — I  love  you.  I  could  love  no  mor 
tal  more.  I  must  say  this  if  I  never  look 
upon  your  face  again." 

"  My  wife !  "  he  said,  with  reverent 
tone,  as  he  took  the  hand  which  rested 
by  her  side,  and  his  own  closed  over  it  in 
silence. 

Thus  beneath  the  twilight  skies,  upon 
the  mountain  top,  above  the  floods,  the 
holy  compact  was  sealed. 

The  thrill  of  speech  through  the  silence 
at  last  was  the  sign  of  these  two  souls 
coming  back  to  earth. 

"  It  shall  be  as  you  say,"  he  mur 
mured.  "Put  me  on  probation;  make 
me  serve  for  you  as  long  as  Jacob,  but 
never  speak  again  of  final  separation." 

"  Then  may  it  be  like  this,"  she  an 
swered  :  "  I  will  go  to  my  father  and 
mother,  then  return  to  my  desk  in  the 
old  counting-room.  You  will  mingle 
freely  with  your  world.  Then,  if  at  the 
end  of  one  year  we  see  each  other  as  we 
do  to-night,  it  shall  be  as  you  say.'' 

"  But  the  very  thought  of  the  old 
house  makes  me  feel  as  if  I  could  not 
wait.  That's  hard — a  year  1  a  whole 
year!  think  how  long  a  year  can  be, 
Eirenel  " 


"But  you  just  said  you  would  wait 
seven  years  1  " 

"  And  I  would ;  but  you  could  not  b<j 
so  cruel  as  to  make  me,  Eirene?  I  sub 
mit,  you  are  wise,  and  yet  I  feel — I  can't 
help  it — as  if  you  were  making  me  pay 
the  penalty  of  that  fellow's  double  deal 
ing.  It's  the  only  bitter  drop  in  the  joy, 
his  cursed  memory — and  the  impulse  I 
feel  to  thrash  him.  I  would  if  I  could 
see  him.  I  wouldn't  shoot  him  like  a 
brave  man,  I'd  thrash  him,  and  let  him 
go  for  a  coward  all  the  rest  of  his  life." 

"  0,  no,  you  would  not,"  said  Eirene, 
smiling  at  the  ludicrous  picture  presented. 
"I  am  afraid  you  would  never  look  the 
same  to  me  again  if  I  were  to  see  you 
thrash  a  man." 

"  Then  I  will  never  thrash  him." 

But  the  deeper  and  sweeter  conscious 
ness  in  the  man's  soul  could  not  be  ban 
ished  by  any  badinage. 

"  Mine,"  he  murmured,  with  all  a  man's 
unconsciousf  triumph. 

"Thine  and  mine."  said  the  woman. 

"  Forever  and  forever." 

Hand  in  hand  they  walked  up  the 
stony  hillside,  and  without  a  word  went 
to  the  two  graves  within  the  old  stone 
wall. 

"  I  feel  that  you  have  been  dear  to  me 
ever  since  the  moment  that  I  saw  you 
carry  him,"  she  said,  pointing  to  the 
spot  where  the  body  of  Win  rested. 

"  I  know  that  you  have  been  dear  to 
me  from  the  first  moment  that  I  looked 
upon  your  face,"  was  the  answer. 

The  convalescent  soldier  still  sat  on 
the  veranda  as  they  walked  from  the 
graveyard  toward  the  house. 

"  I  had  my  eye  on  'em,"  he  said  to  a 
comrade  a  few  moments  later,  after  he 
had  watched  Pierre  De  Peyster  ride 
down  the  hillside  out  of  sight  "  I  had 
my  eye  on  "em.  A  mighty  time  they  sat 
by  the  stun.  I'd  say  they'd  been  a 
courtin'  only  they  looked  so  awful 
solemn,  and  they  went  and  stood  in  the 
graveyard,  and  people  don't  gen'ally  go 
and  look  at  graves  after  they've  been 
making  love.  But  it's  kind  o'  queer 
they  sot  there  so  long  by  the  stun.  I 
never  saw  Sister  Eirene  with  a  feller 
before.  But  now,  I  think  on  it,  I  know 


188 


EIRIXE : 


it's  all  up  with  that  Dr.  Pi-ster.  Never 
saw  anybody  look  disappointed  as  he 
did  when  he  came  out  of  the  house  fust 
and  couldn't  find  her." 

Pierre  De  Peyster  wrote  from  the 
hotel  at  Harper's  Ferry  that  night  to  his 
sister : 

"  Dear  Corna : — I  have  found  my 
wife.  She  is  the  sister  of  your  pro 
tegee. 

"  Your  satisfied  brother, 

"  PIERRE." 

The  next  morning  he  started  for  New 
York  to  begin  his  probation,  Eirene  re 
maining  behind  till  the  hospital  closed. 
Pierre  De  Peyster  retained  all  his  old 
horror  of  love-making  in  a  hospital. 

"  Then  I  must  go  at  once,"  he  said, 
and  he  went. 

Not  many  days  after  Eirene  caught  a 
brilliant  gleam  from  some  object  moving 
up  the  road  which  reminded  her  of  the 
old  glitter  of  bayonets.  She  looked  and 
saw  a  bright  red  peddler's  wagon  driven 
by  a  man  sitting  under  a  chaise  cover 
high  upon  its  top.  She  saw  also  that 
the  glitter  came  from  rows  of  tin  pans, 
dippers,  and  other  culinary  utensils 
strung  behind.  The  sight  struck  her 
oddly ;  it  was  a  new  one  for  Virginia. 
It  could  remind  her  of  nothing  but 
Yankee  land,  and  Moses  Loplolly. 

"  Poor  Moses,"  she  said  kindly,  re 
membering  how  he  saved  her  home  for 
her  so  long.  "  How  good  he  has  been  ; 
I  hope  he  is  well,"  and  with  this  thought 
she  returned  to  her  work.  But  in  a 
very  few  moments  she  was  summoned  to 
the  little  office  leading  off  the  great  hall. 
The  "orderly  "  said  that  there  was  a  man 
there  who  wanted  to  see  her.  As  she 
descended  she  saw  the  great  red  wagon 
before  the  door,  and  entering  the  office 
there  stood  Moses  Loplolly. 

"  Eirene,  I  swan  1  Wa'al,  wa'al  1 " 
and  he  rushed  toward  her,  and  extended 
the  well-remembered  hand. 

"  Why,  Moses,  where  did  you  come 
from  ?  " 

"  From  hum  straight — that  is,  straight 
as  the  road  would  bring  me;  rode  all 
the  way ;  peddled  lots." 

"  Then  you  are  peddling  still  ?  " 

"  Peddlifl'!     I  guess— I  am  ;  peddlin' 


p;u-«.  I  thought  so 'fore  wartime;  thai 
warn't  nothin1  to  what  it  pays  now." 

"  But  I  hope  you  didn't  peddle  all 
through  the  war,"  she  said,  reproach 
fully,  as  she  looked  at  Moses,  grown  big 
and  brown,  and  thought  of  Win,  the 
brother  for  whom  she  had  hoped  so 
much,  dead,  dead  by  yonder  wall. 

"No,  not  all  through  the  war;  I  driv 
three  months  an  army  wagon.  My  !  the 
difference  'tween  drivin'  your  own  team 
and  drivin'  six  tarnal  pesky  army  mules, 
all  backin'  and  balkin'  in  the  middle  of  a 
river — runs  they  call  'em  here,  every 
river  's  a  run — and  not  a  bridge  over  one 
on  'em.  Wa'al,  I  never  swore  till  then  ! 
— till  my  mules  backed  me  and  a  wagon 
load  of  bread  all  down  hill  head  over 
heels  into  Snicker's  Run.  Then  I  did 
cuss.  I  cuss'd  till  I  was  so  tired  I 
couldn't  cuss  no  more.  Then  I  rested, 
and  cuss'd  again.  That  was  the  last 
time  that  ever  I  driv  a  mule.  You 
oughter  seen  the  bread  a  poppin  all 
over  the  run,  an'  me  almus'  drownded, 
and  those  pesky  critters  standin'  stock 
still  in  the  water  enjoying  on  it.  'Twus 
nufF  to  make  a  parson  cuss.  My !  I 
could  cuss  now  when  I  think  on  it.  But 
I  wont.  I  didn't  come  here  to  cuss, 
that's  sartin." 

"  How  have  you  happened  to  come 
here,  Moses?" 

"  'Taint  no  happen !  cum  on  purpose. 
An't  it  likely  that  I  want  to  see  yer  after 
all  this  time  ?  T  set  just  as  high  by  you, 
Rene,  as  ever  I  sot.  I  don't  see  no  great 
change,  sech  as  I've  he'rn  'em  tell  aboqt. 
Ef  you  was  faded  clean  out,  you'd  be 
handsomer  'n  any  on  'em.  I  wouldn't 
care  ef  yer  eyes  was  green,  and  your  hair 
was  blue,  or  if  you  hadn't  a  hair  on  your 
head,  you'd  be  Rene,  that's  enuff  for  me. 
But  it  cuts  me  up  to  see  you're  'as 
agin  peddlin'  as  ever.  It  pays  lovely. 
And  I'll  give — wa'al,  I'll  give  half  to  you 
of  all  it  pays  if — " 

"  0  Moses,  I  don't  object  to  honest 
peddling,  or  to  any  honest  way  of  earn 
ing  a  living.  But  look  there,"  and  she 
pointed  out  of  the  open  window  to  the 
mounds  stretching  far  over  the  hill. 
"  Look  there,  Moses !  every  grave  holds  a 
man  as  young  or  younger  than  you,  who 


A  WOMAN'S  RIGHT. 


189 


died  for  his  country.  I  don't  think  that 
any  young  man  had  a  right  to  be  ped 
dling  for  his  own  gain  during  the  last  four 
years." 

"  Now  don't  be  hard  on  a  chap,  Rene, 
cause  he  didn't  hanker  arter  the  cannon's 
mouth.  I  never  cheated  on  my  pies,  not 
a  soldier.  Ef  I  told  him  they  warn't 
spiled,  they  warn't.  I  never  cheated  no 
body  on  pies  but  the  trac'  men,  who  ped 
dled  religion  when  there  wasn't  no  danger 
round.  They  didn't  love  gunpowder  no 
more'n  me.  1  was  jes  as  much  a  patriet  a- 
peddlin'  pies,  if  they  wan't  too  tough,  to 
the  hungry  soldiers.  Besides,some  of  them 
fellers  that  went  round  with  pious  books 
in  their  hands,  peddled  pies  on  the  sly. 
They'd  pay  another  feller  to  do  it  for  'em 
and  they'd  clap  on  the  profits.  That 
wan't  me/"  said  Moses,  proudly,  "  I  ped 
dled  jack-knives  and  pies  above  board, 
an'  on  my  own  hook.  When  a  poor  sol 
dier  was  hungry  or  wounded,  he  wanted 
suthin'  more'n  a  trac',  I  reckon." 

"He  certainly  did,"  said  Eirene,  "and 
more  than  jack-knives  or  pies.  I  can't 
help  it,  Moses,  the  only  men  that  I  can 
honor  now  are  the  men  who  fought,  or 
the  men  who  served  those  who  fought." 

'•  Aint  I  a-servin'  on  'em!"  exclaimed 
Moses  triumphantly,  "  with  the  very 
money  I  saved  out  of  pies  ?  Afore  I  cum 
away  I  started  a  monerment  on  Pinner- 
kel  Hill  for  our  Hilltop  boys,'by  'scribiu' 
a  hundred  dollars.  And  there's  Rhody 
Tanner,  Seth's  widder,  I  said  to  her: 
1  Rhody,  you'll  have  ten  dollars  a  month 
till  your  pension  comes  round.'  It  all 
cum  out  of  pies." 

"  You  were  always  generous  with  your 
money,  Moses.  No  one  has  more  cause 
to  be  grateful  to  you  than  I,"  said  Ei 
rene,  mollified  by  the  remembrance  of  his 
kindness. 

Moses  thought  this  his  moment  to 
strike,  and  exclaimed : 

"  I  heven't  been  half  as  kind  to  yer  as 
I  wanted  to  be,  or  as  I  would  a  bin  ef 
you'd  a  let  me.  But  I  thought  by  this 
time  you'd  be  tuckered  out,  an'  I'd  come 
an'  see.  You  know  you  need  never  hev 
left  your  own  hum,  if  ye  hadn't  a-wanted 
tu.  You  might  a  lived  there  all  these 
years  as  snug  as  a  bug  in  a  rug.  Aint  you 


tired  totin  round  ?  Cum,  Rene,  won't  ye 
go  back  along  a  me  ?  I'll  go  up  the  val 
ley  and  peddle  off  my  tins  and  notions; 
they  are  clean  wiped  out  of  everything 
up  there,  sech  as  they  had,  which  wa'nt 
much.  Say,  jest  think  of  heathens  that 
never  had  no  cook-stoves,  or  a  kitchen 
nigher  nor  handier  'an  one  of  our  barns, 
callen  ^emselves  Amerikins  an'  our  ekels, 
an'  sayin'  one  of  'em  could  lick  ten  Yank 
ees.  I've  hearn 'em!  guess  they'd  better 
try  (buttoning  up  his  coat  ferociously). 
My !  how  they'll  buy  my  pans.  I'll 
take  old  picturs  or  any  old  granders  and 
make  money  sellin  on  em  over  agin.  If 
they  look  lumberin',  I'll  put  'em  all  inside 
the  box,  an'  you  can  ride  on  the  top  with 
me,  jest  as  easy  !  We  can  go  to  Freder 
ic  in  a  mornin'  and  get  merred,  and  then 
jog  along  back  to  Hilltop  jest  as  slick. 
Say  now,  Rene,  won't  yer  ?  Do!  Do  let 
a  poor  feller  peddle  for  yer  all  his  life,  yer 
needn't  do  nuthin'  but  spend  the  money." 

Moses'  darling  plan,  on  which  he  had 
doted  every  moment  of  the  way  from 
Massachusetts  to  Virginia,  looked  so  easy 
of  fulfilment  in  the  light  of  his  imagina 
tion  contemplated  from  his  wagon-top— 
Rene  would  be  so  "  tuckered  "  out  that 
she  would  be  glad  to  go  back  with  him, 
he  was  certain  of  it  thea.  Several  keen 
bargains  along  the  road  sharpened  his 
sense  of  happiness ;  his  two  ruling  pas 
sions  seemed  nearly  gratified,  his  passion 
for  gain  and  his  passion  for  Rene.  But 
now  the  eager  tones  with  which  he  be 
gan  his  appeal  died  before  the  look  in  her 
face,  and  ho  ended  in  a  piteous  tone  of 
whining  entreaty. 

"  0  Moses,"  said  Eirene,  in  a  tone  of 
actual  distress,  "  I  hoped  that  you  would 
never  oblige  me  to  appear  ungrateful 
again.  There  is  nothing,  nothing  in  my 
power  that  I  will  not  do  for  you,  but 
marry  you  I  cannot." 

He  looked  at  her  sharply. 

"  I  know  it !  There's  another  feller 
'round,  I  know  it!  You  didn't  speak 
like  that  afore.  It  wa'n't  so  hard  to 
bear  when  there  wa'n't  no  other  feller 
on  the  carpet.  I  might  a  knowed  it — 
that  some  infernal  shoulder-strapper 
would  be  a  pickin'  on  you  up.  Where 
is  he  ?  "  he  cried,  in  the  shrillest  tone, 


190 


pulling  up  his  sleeves,  showing  eagerness 
to  fight  at  last,  if  never  before. 

"  This  is  not  you,  Moses,  and  you  for 
get  me,"  said  Eirene.  "  You  are  in  a 
strange  house,  full  of  strange  people.  I 
know  you  don't  want  to  disgrace  your 
self  or  your  friend." 

"No,  I  don't,"  he  said,  drawing  down 
his  sleeves  and  growing  calm.  "  But, 
0,  to  wait  and  hope  all  these  years  for 
nuthin'.  Aint  it  hard? " 

"  It  is  hard,  Moses.  Life  is  hard  for 
all  of  us  in  some  way.  I  would  make 
it  easier  for  you  if  I  could." 

"  I  believe  you,"  he  said,  looking  in 
her  face.  "Ef  yer  only  could  a  lov'd 
me,  Rene — if  yer  only  could  I  Yer 
can't.  I  give  up  tryin'." 

"  I  shall  always  like  you,  Moses,  al 
ways,"  said  Eirene,  with  emphasis. 

"  Will  yer  ? "  his  face  brightening. 
"  That's  suth'en — but  not  much  to  to'ther. 
I  find  there's  a  mighty  difference  'tween 
liken  and  luvin.  'Taint  no  use  tryin'. 
I'm  going  for  good  and  all" 


"  0,  no ;  I'll  see  you  settled  and  hap 
py,  some  day,  at  Hilltop." 

"  Likely,"  in  an  injured  tone.  "  I 
shan't  see  you  settled  and  happy,  for  1 
wont  come  wher  yer  be." 

"  Do,  Moses  !  " 

The  sweetness  and  the  happiness  of  her 
tone  struck  Moses.  He  looked  at  her 
keenly  again. 

"I  KNOW  IT!"  he  exclaimed,  and 
started  for  his  wagon. 

Eirene  followed  him  to  the  door.  And 
as  he  pulled  up  the  chaise-cover  over  his 
head  and  looked  back,  the  sight  of  his 
early  playmate  gazing  after  him  with 
gentle  farewell,  stirred  within  him  all 
the  tender  regret  of  which  he  was  capa 
ble. 

"0  Rene,"  he  said,  mournfully,  "to 
think  how  peddlin'  pays ;  and  yet  'taint 
no  account  if  it  can't  bring  a  feller  what 
he  cares  for  most."  Thus,  in  epitome, 
telling  the  story  of  life  without  knowing 
it,  he  and  the  red  wagon  moved  away. 


A  WOMAN'S  EIGHT. 


191 


CHAPTER  XXII. 


THE   WEDDING  AT  HILLTOP. 


You  have  seen  Hilltop  in  June,  dear 
friends,  but  that  was  years  ago.  What 
has  not  happened  since  then,  to  you,  and 
to  me,  and  to  the  land  that  we  love? 
Thrice  ten  thousand  graves  grown  green 
upon  her  breast  tell  something  of  the 
harvest  that  war  has  gathered  in  !  The 
brown-eyed  boy,  who,  in  his  dreams  in 
the  old  barn,  so  dimly  foresaw  the  future, 
has  been  brought  back  to  sleep  with  his 
comrades  in  the  soil  of  their  fathers. 
The  white  shaft  pointing  skyward  on 
Pinnacle  Hill  tells  where 'they  rest  to 
gether — these  sons  of  the  hamlet  whom 
nature  nurtured  in  her  solitude  for  the 
holy  holocaust  of  human  freedom.  From 
how  many  of  her  homesteads  a  bright, 
brave  man  went  forth  who  never  came 
back.  By  how  many  of  her  firesides 
doth  the  heart  of  woman  ache  for  her 
lost,  who  are  not.  Great  nature,  as  if 
she  took  no  part  in  human  loss  or  sor 
row,  as  if  it  were  her's  to  lift  humanity 
to  the  consciousness  of  immortality  in 
herself  forever  renewed,  wears  this  mo 
ment  all  the  youth  of  her  first  June 
morning.  Still  her  white  cloud  fleets, 
undimmed,  sail  towards  her  vast  horizon. 
Her  encircling  mountains  cover  their 
faces  under  veils  of  tender  green ;  her 
pine  forests  distil  their  frankincense, 
life-giving  with  the  tonic  of  perpetual 
health;  her  maples  that  line  the  road 
side  flutter  their  breezy  garniture  unsul 
lied  and  young  as  ten  years  ago.  How 
is  it  with  the  woman  who  sits  once  more 
by  the  old  window?  Time  and  sorrow 
that  have  not  marred  the  landscape, 
have  they  spared  her?  Do  they  ever 
spare  that  which  is  human  ?  We  try  to 
soothe  ourselves  with  the  fiction  that  we 
do  not  change,  but  other  eyes  see  that 
the  experience  which  has  transformed 
the  very  thoughts  and  feelings  of  the  soul 
is  reflected  upon  the  countenance.  The 


emotion  surging  in  the  blood  of  the 
heart  ebbs  to  the  face,  and  the  line  which 
it  leaves  there  is  never  effaced.  Yet  it  is 
is  only  meaner  natures  which  grow  ugly 
under  the  hand  of  time.  For  the  finer 
soul,  loss  and  grief,  renunciation  and 
yearning,  fruition  and  joy,  are  but  the 
sculptors  who,  touch  by  touch,  remould 
the  face  and  make  it  beautiful ;  not  with 
the  untouched  beauty  of  youth,  but  with 
that  outraying  illumination  of  the  spir.it 
which  may  glorify  the  plainest  features. 
Life,  the  consummate  artist,  has  re 
moulded  the  face  of  Eirene  till  it  shines 
forth  with  a  vivid  lustre  of  expression 
which  mere  youth  can  never  possess,  for 
whose  lack  no  glory  of  tint  or  outline 
can  wholly  compensate.  Large  intelli 
gence  and  thought,  deep  feeling,  with  an 
exquisite  refinement  and  an  undefinable 
tenderness  and  gentleness  hovering  over 
it  like  an  atmosphere,  combine  to  make 
the  charm  of  this  face ;  each  in  turn 
seems  evolved  from  it,  and  to  transfigure 
it.  Yet  there  is  a  serenity  in  her  atti 
tude,  a  repose  pervading  her  entire  pres 
ence,  which  never  belongs  to  first  youth, 
for  it  is  the  repose  of  a  being  grown 
strong  through  discipline  and  trial.  The 
girl  who  once  sat  here  was  lovely,  but 
the  woman  is  lovelier.  She  is  thinking 
of  that  girl  to-night  as  she  would  think 
of  another  person.  She  remembers  her, 
but  in  the  journey  of  life  she  has  come 
on  and  left  her  far  behind.  The  girl  was 
bewildered  and  dazzled  with  her  antici 
pated  happiness.  The  woman  in  her 
serenity  calmly  awaits  her  crowning  joy. 
It  seems  too  much  at  times,  the  fulfil 
ment  of  her  early  dream,  this  rich  love 
of  a  deep  and  true  nature,  which  had 
come  to  complete  her  life  at  last.  And 
yet  the  very  wealth  of  her  womanhood 
forces  her  to  feel  that  this  is  not  a  gratu 
itous  gift  conferred  upon  her.  She  gives 
an  equivalent  in  return ;  she  gives  her- 


192 


EIRENE : 


self,  her  truth,  and  her  devotion,  her 
life  aud  her  soul  to  the  man  whom  she 
honors  .  and  loves.  It  is  not  the  first 
dream  of  youth  and  of  love.  Like  youth 
itself  that  can  never  be  repeated.  The 
later  morning  has  a  splendor  that  the 
dawn  has  not,  yet  it  has  lost  one  thing 
that  day  can  never  restore — the  fresh 
ness  of  the  dew.  Our  life  has  but  one 
youth,  and  its  promise  can  never  be  re 
newed.  Noon  may  fulfill,  but  it  does 
not  re-utter  the  prophecy  of  the  morn 
ing. 

A  year  has  passed  since  we  looked 
upon  Eirene  last,  in  the  half-ruined  Vir 
ginia  hospital.  It  has  been  spent  as  she 
promised — at  her  desk  in  the  counting- 
room.  Never  had  the  moral  strength  of 
purpose  which  she  .had  gained  through 
years  of  painful  discipline  been  so  tested 
as  during  this  twelve  months  of  proba 
tion.  For  she  worked  now  in  the  face 
of  undisguised  opposition. 

"It  is  very  annoying,  Pierre,  it  is  per 
fectly  outrageous,"  Cornelia  Stuyvesant 
would  say,  ''  to  have  the  woman,  who  in 
twelve  months  is  to  be  your  wife, 
perched  from  morning  till  night  at  the 
desk  of  a  furnishing  shop.  The  Living 
stons,  Beekmans,  and  Van  Dykes,  and 
all  the  rest  go  there  and  take  their  very 
bills  from  her  hands,  and  in  twelve 
months  they  are  to  meet  her  as  an  equal." 

"Equal!  In  twelve  months  I  as  if  she 
were  not  their  equal  now,  and  ten  times 
more.  Let  them  go  there  every  day  and 
learn  a  lesson,  that  a  true  lady  honors 
her  employment  whatever  it  may  be,  and 
that  no  honorable  employment  can  make 
her  less  than  a  lady." 

"  O,  you  men  can  talk  such  fine  senti 
ments,  but  they  are  jiot  practical  to  wo 
men.  You  know  very  well  what  I 
mean  by  equal.  Of  course,  Eirene  is 
their  equal  and  more  personally,  but  she 
is  not  their  equal  socially,  and  she  can't 
be  till  she  is  your  wife.  Then  I  don't 
want  them  to  have  the  advantage  of 
pointing  to  her  former  position.  That 
she  will  stay  in  that  old  shop  is  very  ob 
stinate  and  provoking,  as  she  is  to  be 
your  wife." 

"  Fudge !  on  your  fine  female  distinc 
tions.  A  woman  has  a  right,  a  perfect 


right,  to  earn  her  own  living  as  long  as 
she  chooses.  Now,  I  am  sorry  that  Ei 
rene  does  it,  but  honor  her  for  it." 

Nevertheless  he  would  walk  away  and 
feel  that  it  was  provoking,  that  aller  all 
Eirene  was  in  this  regard  obstinate.  Few 
sisters,  wives,  or  mothers  work  in  private 
on  a  man's  prejudices  and  feelings  in 
vain.  Only  God  knows  the  harm  they 
have  wrought  in  the  world  by  sending 
forth  from  their  presence  to  its  work  ir 
ritated  and  exasperated  men. 

Pierre  honored  Eirene  for  her  industry 
and  womanly  independence,  yet  Corne 
lia's  incessant  criticisms  combined  with 
his  own*  impatience  had  their  effect. 
He  could  not  pass  the  furnishing  shop  and 
see  the  Livingston  carriage  outside  with 
its  livered  lackeys,  and  think  that  its  idle 
occupants  were  perhaps  at  that  moment 
being  waited  upon  by  his  affianced  wife, 
without  a  feeling  of  inward  wrath.  All 
combined  to  make  him  seek  Eirene  at 
last  with  expostulation  and  even  fault 
finding,  although  he  had  fully  intended 
to  remain  a  monument  of  resignation  and 
patience  until  the  end  of  the  year.  More 
than  once  Eirene  had  rushed  to  her  little 
room,  plunged  her  face  in  her  pillow  as 
of  old  and  shed  bitter  tears.  After  all 
the  saddest  thing  on  earth  was  loving ! 
She  loved  a  strong,  noble  man,  yet  even 
he  found  fault  with  her  and  had  spoken,  it 
seemed  to  her,  unkindly.  He  was  once 
more  the  first  Dr.  De  Peyster,  whom  she 
had  not  liked ;  he  was  tyrannical,  and,  and 
he  had  called  her  "  unreasonable,"  where 
upon  would  flow  a  fresh  tide  of  tears. 
But  always  joy  came  in  the  morning,  in 
the  shape  of  a  basket  of  fresh  flowers,  a 
dear  book  that  she  had  wanted,  and  a  note 
so  full  of  loving  contrition,  for  having 
been  severe,  but  it  was  so  hard  to  be 
rich  and  to  have  her  work,  so  hard  to 
wait  in  a  home  without  her— it.  was  all  be 
cause  he  loved  her  so  much,  but  he  would 
begin  anew  the  patience  of  Jacob — if  she 
would  forgive  him?  which  she  always 
did,  by  writing  him  in  the  evening  that 
it  was  she  who  was  unreasonable,  and 
that  he  must  forgive  her.  Whereupon 
she  would  kiss  her  flowers,  devour  her 
new  book  by  gaslight,  and  feel  in  her 
heart  that  she  loved  him  more  than  ever. 


A  WOMAN'S  RIGHT. 


193 


Nevertheless  the  furnishing  shop  was  a 
standing  cause  of  "  little  misunderstand 
ings"  to  the  end  of  the  year.  Pierre  re 
signed  himself  to  the  conclusion  that 
even  his  lovely  ideal  woman  was  in 
one  thing  obstinate,  not  to  say  unrea 
sonable.  He  sighed,  but  loved  her  no 
less.  Eirene  sighed  because  he  thought 
this  of  her,  yet  felt  that  she  could  not  ex 
plain  the  deepest  cause  that  made  her  so. 

"  He  says  that  he  is  glad  that  I  am 
poor,  that  everbody  belonging  to  me  is 
poor."  she  would  think  silently.  "  And 
I  have  no  feeling  about  it  for  myself, 
not  with  him.  If  his  wife,  I  could  take 
any  treasure  from  his  hands  without 
humiliation.  But  those  who  need  me 
should  receive  their  independence  from 
me,  not  from  my  husband.  This  year's 
salary  with  the  ojd  place  will  make  them 
comfortable  at  home.  This  is  my  first 
duty.  If  there  were  no  other  cause,  I 
must  work  on  to  the  end  of  the  year,  no 
matter  what  is  said  to  me."  But  the 
year  has  gone,  he-  object  is  accomplish 
ed.  Eirene  sits  by  the  old  window,  and 
to-morrow  is  her  wedding  morning. 

In  the  old  sitting-room  below,  Lowell 
and  Mary  Vale  await  the  guests  expected 
later  in  the  evening.  The  table  is  spread, 
and  by  the  mother's  side  is  set  the  plate 
and  chair  for  the  boy  who  will  never 
return  to  use  them.  With  Mary  Vale's 
joy  there  is  blended  an  undefinable  lone 
liness.  She  rejoices  in  the  return  and 
prosperity  of  her  children,  and  yet  she 
is  conscious  that  in  one  sense  that  pros 
perity  divides  them  from  her.  The 
world  that  she  longed  for  in  her  youth 
has  come  to  them,  and  she  in  her  old  life 
is  left  behind.  Her's  is  the  mother's 
loneliness  which  in  this  country  must 
come  to  the  parental  heart  with  a  keener 
pang  than  in  any  other.  For  it  is  not 
the  inevitable  separation  only  which  soon 
or  late  must  come  to  almost  every  parent 
and  child,  but  it  is  separation  in  condition. 
Some  day  the  father  and  mother  wake  to 
the  consciousness  that  the  children  to 
whom  they  have  given  birth  belong  to 
another  race  and  time,  and  come  back  to 
them  almost  as  strangers.  Their  humble 
belongings,  their  homely  ways,  their  sim 
ple  faith,  are  all  foreign  if  not  repugnant 


to  the  younger  generation.  In  Europe, 
with  but  few  exceptions,  the  child  is  born 
to  the  station  of  the  parent,  but  in  this 
country,  with  equally  few  exceptions, 
the  reverse  is  the  rule.  The  most  illus 
trious  often  rise  from  the  lowliest  begin 
nings.  The  man  of  millions,  whose 
home  is  a  palace,  could  scarcely  stand 
erect  in  the  low  house  in  which  he  was 
born.  The  haughty  woman  of  fashion 
would  feel  more  shame  than  if  convicted 
of  crime,  if  any  one  of  her  "set"  should 
ever  be  brought  face  to  face  with  the 
lowly  abode  in  which  she  spent  her 
childhood.  It  was  perfectly  plain  to  the 
eyes  of  Mary  Vale  that  her  children  al 
ready  had  passed  away  forever  from  the 
daily  life  of  their  parents.  She  would 
not  have  it  otherwise,  yet  the  fact  left 
her  no  less  alone.  "  It  would  have  been 
different  with  Win,"  she  said  with  a 
sigh.  "  Poor  boy  !  he  would  never  have 
outgrown  the  old  house  or  the  old  life." 

"  Ko,"  she  said  while  talking  the  fu 
ture  over  with  Eirene,  "  it  is  too  late 
for  father  and  me  to  be  grafted  onto  the 
life  of  a  great  city.  We  can  come  and 
visit  you,  and  we  will  keep  the  little 
house  open,  always  ready  for  you.  But 
we  are  too  old  now,  child,  to  change  our 
ways.  We  couldn't  feel  natural  in  the 
great  house  that  is  to  be  your  home,  and 
I  dare  say  we  should  look  very  awkward 
and  old-fashioned  there.  Though  ever 
so  small  we  shall  be  happier  in  a  home 
which  we  can  call  our  own."  Eirene 
knew  that  she  was  right,  and,  with  all 
her  longing  for  her  mother,  did  not  try 
to  shake  her  opinion  or  resolve. 

In  the  meantime  at  the  Pinnacle 
House,  a  bridal  party  of  three  had  ar 
rived.  Cornelia  Stuyvesant  sits  is  the 
old  room  to  which  she  came  years  ago. 
and  ponders  over  the  strangeness  of 
human  life.  "Talk  of  novels!"  she 
says  to  herself.  "  The  most  remarkable 
things  in  them  we  say  are  unnatural, 
not  like  life.  The  most  remarkable  thing 
that  I  have  ever  found  is  life  itself." 
When  she  received  Pierre's  letter  from 
Virginia  announcing  the  fact  that  he  had 
found  his  wife,  her  first  exclamation 
was,  "I  might  have  known  it!"  and 
her  next,  "  Thank  fate,  she  is  a  lady  !  " 


EIRENE : 


"  I  might  have  known  it,  that  of  all  men 
Pierre  De  Peyster  would  choose  his  own 
wife,  and  that  he  was  the  very  last  one 
who  would  take  a  creature  to  mould,  or 
a  kitten  to  play  with.  Above  all  the 
men  whom  I  have  ever  seen,  his  wife 
must  be  his  equal,  companion,  and 
friend."  » 

"  I've  not  been  very  noble  myself,"  she 
says  now  with  a  sigh.  "Nobody  knows 
it  better  than  Cornelia  De  Peyster.  I 
know  what  Margaret  Fuller  means  when 
she  calls  on  the  woman  of  the  nineteenth 
century  to  reclaim  herself  from  'little 
ness.'  This  must  be  the  first  enfran 
chisement — I  feel  it !  I  feel  myself  bound 
by  a  thousand  fancies  and  customs  which 
in  their  result  amount  to  meannesses. 
Perhaps  it  is  something  to  know  it,  and 
to  feel  it.  P4erhaps  some  time  I  may  work 
my  way  out  and  on  to  something  better 
and  nobler.  I  know  I  have  not  been 
thoroughly  kind  to  this  girl,  to  this 
lovely,  struggling  woman,  who  had  a 
claim  upon  all  my  sympathy,  if  only  as 
the  sister  of  Pansy,  whom  I  had  made  as 
my  own  daughter.  Then  what  a  claim 
she  had  in  herself.  That  was  the  rub  I 
She  and  her  condition  were  so  at  va 
riance.  And  I  was  not  noble  enough  to 
take  her,  and  ignore  her  condition  No, 
not  ignore  it  but  honor  it,  because  she 
honored  it.  But  it  was  provoking,  and 
she  was  obstinate  to  stick  at  that  old 
desk.  Besides  it  was  not  in  human  na 
ture  to  give  up  at  once  a  darling  plan ! 
But  Pierre  has  settled  it  all.  I  might 
have  known  that  he  would — I  did  know 
it.  I  knew  by  instinct  that  if  he  ever 
met  that  woman  he  would  love  her,  and 
nothing  on  earth  could  hinder." 

During  the  last  year  she  had  shown 
Eirene  many  lovely  attentions.  Nothing 
in  her  manner  to  her  personally  could 
possibly  have  suggested  to  any  one  who 
did  not  feel  it  that  a  constant  struggle 
was  going  on  in  her  mind  concerning  her 
brother's  future  wife — a  struggle  be 
tween  the  affection  which  she  really  felt 
for  her  and  all  her  deep-rooted  prejudices 
of  caste  and  custom.  She  reiterated  over 
and  over  to  herself  how  weak  and  foolish 
it  was  in  her  to  care  at  all  if  all  the 
Livingstons,  Stuy  vesants,  Van  Cortlandts, 


and  Beekmans  in  her  drawing-room  re 
cognized  in  Pierre  De  Peyster's  affianced 
the  quiet  young  woman  who  cast  up 
their  accounts  and  handed  them  their 
bills  in  the  great  furnishing  shop,  and 
yet  a  cold  perspiration  would  start  upon 
her  at  the  very  thought.  On  this  mar 
riage  eve  the  woman  of  family  and  of 
fashion  ponders  over  it  all,  and  it  seems 
stranger  to  her  than  ever.  "  To  think 
whom  be  might  have  married,"  she  said, 
as  a  long  and  fair  procession  moved 
through  her  memory.  "  Wealth,  birth, 
and  beauty,  how  many  would  have  laid 
them  at  his  feet.  To  think  that  he  turned 
from  all,  to  take  his  wife  from  such  a 
home."  And  the  little  house  in  her  thought 
stood  forth  lower  and  smaller  and  meaner 
than  ever  before.  "  How  strange  !  And 
yet  is  it  so  strange  ?  Eirene  in  herself 
is  more  than  them  all  to  him.  I  allow 
that.  Even  I  chose  Pansy,  but  that 
was  different ;  Pansy  is  Miss  Stuy vesant 
now." 

As  Miss  Stuyvesant,  Pansy  herself 
dressed  for  the  evening  drive  which  was 
to  convey  her  to  her  early  home,  walks 
up  and  down  the  great  piazza,  with  her 
snowy  draperies  and  azure  ribbons 
fluttering  far  behind  her. 

If  the  girl  from  Boston  could  but  see 
her  now  !  Where  was  that  girl  from 
Boston  that  she  did  not  walk  the  piazza 
as  of  old,  to  behold  the  fresh  beauty  and 
splendor  of  the  young  beauty  from  New 
York,  who  bore  such  slight  resemblance 
to  the  little  mountain  maid  at  whose  old- 
fashioned  dress  and  faded  ribbons  the  girl 
from  Boston  had  once  dared  to  laugh ! 

"  I  would  just  like  to  see  her  once. 
Would  I  notice  her  ?  No!"  (with  superb 
scorn,)  "  but  she  would  notice  me  I  She 
would  not  laugh  to  night,"  says  Pansy, 
the  grand  piazza  bringing  back  her  early 
resentment  in  all  its  first  force.  "  Mother 
will  hardly  know  me,  nor  father,"  she  goes 
on,  stepping  through  the  long  window 
into  the  parlor,  and  surveying  herself 
from  head  to  foot  in  the  mirror.  "  I 
knew  I  would  never  end  my  days  here 
where  I  began  them.  Yet  he  chose 
Eirene!  Idon'tcaVe.  But  I  know  some 
thing  that  he  don't — I  was  intended  for 
him.  Mamma  don't  know  that  I  know — 


A  WOMAN'S  RIGHT. 


195 


I'd  like  to  see  her  hide  anything  from 
me.  He  had  seen  me,  and  he  chose 
Eirene  I  I  don't  care.  I'd  have  to  live 
in  that  old  house  all  my  days.  He  says 
he  wont  sell  it,  and  he  wont  leave  it,  and 
Eirene  don't  want  him  to,  how  stupid! 
But  he  is  splendid.  I  have  not  seen  his 
equal  yet,  but  I  will.  Mamma  and  I  are 
going  to  live  on  Park  Avenue.  I'm  to 
be  brought  out,  and  I'll  see  the  best, 
and  they'll  see  me,  turning  slowly,  and 
scrutinizing  her  own  beauty.  In  half  an 
hour,  I'll  see  the  old  house ;  how  odd  it 
will  seem,  and  how  natural,  how  old 
and  low  and  shabby !  And  to  think 
that  I  was  born  there !  What  would 
Berta  Von  Beekman  say,  if  she  could  see 
it!  I  don't  care,  I'm  more  stylish  than 
she,  and  a  great  deal  handsomer.  Every 
one  says  so.  But  I  want  to  see  mother  and 

father,  and ;     dear  Win,  how  sorry 

I  am,  that  I  ever  quarrelled  with  you. 
And  Muggins  1  Poor  Muggins  is  dead, 
dropped  dead  in  the  road.  The  only 
horse  we  ever  had.  What  would  Berta 
Von  Beekman  say  to  Muggins !  I  don't 
care,  I  liked  her.  I  always  shall,  though 
I  believe  it  would  kill  me  to  ride  after 
her  now.  Half  an  hour !  And  I'll  see 
mother,  dear  mother  1  Will  she  know 
me?  Will  she- think  me  fine  ?" 

Pierre  De  Peyster  paces  his  room  in 
intense  impatience.  Every  man  on  the 
eve  of  his  marriage  is  made  subject  to 
some  woman  who  takes  charge  of  his 
proprieties.  Cornelia  has  named  the 
proper  hour  to  go  to  the  cottage,  and  he 
waits  for  it,  but  in  no  acquiescing  mood. 
Yet  impatient  as  he  is  to  see  her,  the 
very  thought  of  his  wife  soothes  him 
while  he  waits.  Many  a  man,  as  blindly 
in  love  as  David  Copperfield  with  Dora, 
on  his  marriage  eve  finds  himself  in  a 
•  state  of  incoherent  bliss  with  a  feeling 
running  through  it  as  if  he  were  about 
to  leap  in  the  dark.  He  is  in  love, 
dreadfully  in  love,  there  is  no  doubt  of 
that,  but  what  he  is  really  in  love  with 
he  is  by  no  means  certain.  He  has 
called  his  love  "  a  darling,'1  "  a  blossom," 
and  "  a  mouse."  She  is  the  sweetest 
creature  in  the  world,  be  is  sure  of  that; 
but  through  all  the  chaos  of  his  joy 
shoot  random  fears  tacked  to  stray 


cookery  books  and  long  lines  of  accounts. 
When  he  faces  her  with  these  and  says, 
"  My  love,  let  us  reason,"  will  she  be 
the  sweetest  creature  still !  Poor  fellow, 
he  does  not  know,  though  he  is  sure  to 
find  out  afterwards.  All  that  he  is  cer 
tain  of  now  is  that  he  is  in  love,  and 
there's  his  wedding  suit.  Pierre  De  Pey 
ster  is  haunted  by  no  such  doubts.  He  is 
perfectly  sure  that  he  has  found  what  he 
has  sought  through  all  his  life,  and  never 
found  before — his  wife,  his  true  wife.  It 
is  she,  and  he  has  nothing  to  fear.  He 
can  never  be  mistaken  or  disappointed 
in  her.  He  even  dwells  fondly  on  her 
faults.  They  have  teazed  him  some,  for 
he  is  a  man,  and  the  sublimest  man  ever 
made  can  be  teazed  and  tormented  by 
the  faults  of  the  woman  that  he  loves. 
And  yet  some  way  now  he  is  delighted 
to  think  that  he  knows  them  and  that 
even  she  has  them.  This  moment  her 
very  infirmities  seem  to  bring  her  nearer 
to  him.  "They  go  against  mine,"  he 
said,  "and  how  miserable  I  should  be 
with  a  wooden  angel.  She  is  wilful,  in 
a  quiet  way,  she  is  certainly  very  wilful 
If  not,  she  never  could  have  held  out 
through  the  year  against  all  my  feeling 
and  opposition,  yet  she  was  right.  She 
is  too  sensitive,  and  too  proud — a  little 
inconveniently  so  sometimes,  yet  I 
would  not  have  her  different.  She  is 
so  true  and  devoted  in  her  own  nature, 
it  will  make  her  exclusive  in  love.  She 
leaves  a  wide  margin  for  friendship,  but 
love  in  her  life  stajids  sacred  and  alone. 
I  must  make  up  my  mind  to  be  an  ab 
solute  Benedict.  Suppose  I  should  want 
to  flirt  and  amuse  myself  with  other 
men's  wives,  or  with  women  not  other 
men's  wives,  as  I  see  men  constantly 
doing,  how  would  it  fare  with  me  ? 
Bless  me!  I  can  see  her  shut  her  eyes 
upon  me  as  if  she  were  shutting  me 
out  forever.  If  I  ventured  to  say,  '  I 
didn't  mean  anything,'  she  would  open 
them  then  with  such  a  strange  look  of 
wonder,  and  ask,  '  How  can  you  do  or 
say  what  you  don't  mean  ?  I  don't 
understand  it.'  And  I  should  walk  out 
of  the  room  feeling  like  a  culprit  and  a 
villain,  which  would  not  be  agreeable. 
Lucky  for  me  I've  no  such  proclivities. 


196 


EIRENE : 


I  see  wherein  my  Rene  could  be  an  intol 
erant  wife.  Worse  than  all,  she  believes 
in  Women's  Rights — at  heart  I  know  she 
does.  Not  that  she  talks  them,  thank 
Heaven.  I  could  not  stand  that,  but 
she  acts  them.  What  else  has  she  been 
doing  the  last  year,  indeed  all  her  life? 
If  left  alone,  while  she  had  head  or  hands, 
she  would  never  think  of  being  depen 
dent  She  would  support  herself  and 
others  too,  and  work  out  her  own  future 
like — not  like  a  man,  never,  always  like 
a  woman,  the  quietest,  gentlest,  and 
most  lovable  of  women.  Yet  wherever 
she  was  hampered  by  inequality  of  op 
portunity  or  of  reward  by  legal  oppres 
sion,  or  injustice,  she  would  quietly  ask, 
'  Wherefore  ? '  She  would  say,  '  I  ask  for 
justice,  not  as  a  woman,  but  as  a  human 
being.'  Yet  her  demand  would  not  be 
in  words,  but  in  herself  and  in  what  she 
is.  A  few  more  such  women  would 
make  public  speech  unnecessary.  They 
would  make  all  men  ashamed  of  them 
selves  and  of  their  laws.  This  is  I, 
Pierre  De  Peyster,  talking,  the  born  foe 
of  strong-minded  women,  and  the  em 
bodiment  of  man's  supremacy.  I — I'm 
subjugated  already,"  and  he  laughs 
aloud,  as  if  the  idea  were  delightful. 
"  But  she  don't  talk  politics, — if  she  did 
— well  if  she  did — I  haven't  a  doubt  I'd 
be  the  same  idiot  that  I  am  now. 
Nothing  can  make  her  other  than  Ei- 
rene,  the  dear  Sister  Eirene,  the  wife 
Eirene — 

"  "Tls  she,  or  none  on  earth. ' 

"I  feel  what  Schiller  felt  when  he  wrote 
that,  and  why  does  that  tedious  Coma 
keep  me  waiting  like  this !" 

Meanwhile  Eirene's  mother  had  called 
her  from  the  old  window  where  she  sat 
looking  across  the  tobacco  meadow,  now 
beautiful  with  the  tender  green  of  early 
wheat.  She  went  down,  and  there  in  the 
porch  sat  Moses,  brave  in  holiday  attire 
as  when  he  came  wooing  years  before, 
but  with  an  unmistakable  look  of  hap 
piness  in  his  eyes. 

"  Glad  to  see  yer,  Rene  !  Jes'  stopped 
in  to  say  it's  all  right.  " 

"  Thank  you,  Moses.  It  makes  me  hap 
py  to  hear  you  say  so,  "  said  Eirene, 


who  at  once  by  no  means  comprehended 
how  very  right  it  was. 

"  Wa'al,  I  knowed  t'would.  Yer  so 
kin'  hearted,  I  know'd  you'd  like  to 
know  aforehand  as  I  was  cumftable.  I 
am,  and  a  lee — tie  more.  " 

"  I'm  glad  of  it,  Moses.  I'd  like  to  have 
you  tell  me  that  you  are  perfectly 
happy." 

"  As  you  be,"  said  Moses,  with  a 
touch  of  the  old  reproach  in  his  tone. 
"That  can't  cum  right  off;  mebby  'twill 
arterwards.  Arter  all  the  tuckerin'  I 
been  thro'  its  sum'thin  fora  fellow  to  say 
he's  cumPtable,  and  a  lee — tie  more. 
I  jes'  stopped  in  to  say  that  I  set  by  you, 
Rene,  as  high  as  ever  I  sot,  only  it's 
t'other  way,  your  way,  I  reckon,  when 
you  said. '  Moses,  I'll  allus  be  your  friend.' 
Rene,  I'll  allus  be  your  friend — that's 
what  you're  wanted,  aint  it?  Now  I've 
sed  it." 

"  Yes,  it  would  make  me  unhappy  to 
think  you  would  not  always  be  my 
friend,  Moses." 

"Wa'al,  I  will,  allus.  Thar  aint  no 
wipin'  that  out.  I've  seen  him.  Good 
lookin'  feller,  tu.  High  an'  mighty ! 
'taint  no  wonder,  with  sech  lordish  look- 
in'  chaps  arter  you,  yer  took  no  shine 
to  me,  leastwise  to  merry.  I  know  I 
aint  no  how  uncommon,  an'  you  be ;  so  is 
he,  but  he  can't  be  no  prouder  on  yer  nor 
I'd  ben,  that's  sartin.  I  seen  him  up  to 
the  Pinnerkel.  Deacon  Stave  said : 
'  Kingdom  come !  that's  the  man  that's 
going  to  merry  Eirene  Vale;  he  is  a 
New  York  mill'onar ;  that's  what  comes 
to  the  folks'  children  that  haint  a  mite 
of  kalkerlation  now  an'  never  had.' 
You  better  b'lieve,  Rene,  I  looked,  an' 
had  my  look  out.  Arter  all  I  couldn't 
help  sighin'  when  I  said.  '  So  that's  him  I 
lookin'  so  happy.'  When  I  thought 
what  fur,  I  alruos'  forgot  I  was  happy 
myself.  Why  don't  you  ask  nuthin' 
about  her?  " 

"  About  whom,  Moses." 

"Why,  about  Rhody!  Rhody  Tan 
ner,  Seth's  widder,  which  she  aint  agoin' 
to  be  long.  Me  an'  Rhody's  made  up  to 
take  one  another  for  better  and  wus." 

"Now  I  am  glad.  Why  didn't  you 
tell  me  at  first,  Moses." 


A  WOMAN'S  RIGHT. 


197 


"  Wa'al,  I  meant  ter,  but  the  sight  on 
ytr  put  so  many  other  things  inter  my 
head.  That's  what  I  cum  fur.  I  know'd 
you'd  like  to  know  that  if  you  was  get- 
tin'  merrid  it  might  be  wus.  I  might 
agone  and  drownded  myself,"  said 
Moses,  with  a  quaver,  growing  self- 
pitiful  at  the  thought  that  at  this  mo 
ment  he  might  have  been  dead.  "  I 
thought  on  it.  I  knew  'twant  no  use 
to  trouble  yer  no  more,  an'  I  said  what's 
the  use  o'  livin'  ?  I  went  an'  stood  on 
the  bridge  arter  I  cum  hum,  and  said, 
'I'll  drownd  myself,  then  Rene'll  feel 
sorry.'  I  look'd  at  the  stuns  in  the  bot 
tom,  at  the  poliwogs  a  skipperin'  on  top, 
an'  thought  how  creepin'  the  water  felt 
when  those  tarnel  army  mules  tumbled 
me  an'  the  bread  into  the  run,  and  the 
longer  I  looked  the  more  I  thought  I 
wouldn't  drownd  myself.  '  What's  the 
use  ?  '  I  sed,  'arter  the  first  Rene'll  go  on 
enjoyin'  herself  jes'  as  if  I  hadn't  gone 
an'  drownded  myself,  an'  there  I'll  be 
dead,  an!  can't  enjoy  nothin' — leastways 
it's  by  no  means  sartin'  I  could.  I  wont 
drownd  myself,  I'll  live  an' — peddle. 
I'll — thar's  Rhody,  how  thankful  she 
looked  when  I  took  her  the  money.  If 
a  feller  can't  git  what  he  wants,  why 
shouldn't  he  take  what  he  can  git?  I'd 
like  to  know?'  So  I  didn't  drownd  my 
self,  but  yer  see  I  might'er  ;  it  might  a 
been  wus,  I  might  a  been  dead.  You'd 
a  been  sorry,  wouldn't  yer,  Rene?  " 

'•  You  know  that,  Moses,  but  think 
what  a  foolish  fellow  you  would  have 
been  to  have  done  that,  and  how  wise 
you  were  to  think  of  Rhody,  and  how 
happy  she  will  make  you." 

"  Wa'al,  Rliody  might  be  wus.  She's 
mighty  taken'  in  her  own  way,  which  aint 
yourn.  I  couldn't  bring  myself  to  make 
up  to  her,  at  fust,  no  how.  It  warnt 
her,  but  'twas  you  I'd  wanted  allus. 
'Twarnt  likely  I  could  give  yer  up  in  a 
minnit,  was  it,  if  I  had  gi'n  up  drowndin'  ? 
But  I  tried.  Fust  the  more  I  tried  to 
like  Rhody,  the  more  I  didn't.  Her 
ways  warnt  yourn.  They  made  me 
think  o'  yourn,  and  like  'em  more'ivever 
afore,  I  sed,  'taint  no  use,  Mose,  you're 
struck  clean  dead  with  luv  to  the  roots 
o'  yer  marrer  for  Rene ;  'taint  no  use, 


your  heart  wont  go  pit-pat,  not  a  pat 
for  nobody  else,  'taint  no  use  a  try  in'. 
I  stopped  tryin,'  an'  gin  clean  up.  But 
I  took  Rhody's  money  to  her  jes'  the 
same.  '  It's  all  fur  Seth,'  I  said.  '  Peddlin' 
pays,  Rhody,  but  what's  the  use  if  it 
don't  make  nobody  cumf  table  side  a  me.' 
Purty  soon  it  seemed  to  me  she  looked 
a  leetle  more  fixed  up  every  time  I  cum, 
tell  one  night — wa'al,  as  sure  as  you  live, 
she  had  a  leetle  curl  a  hangin'  aside  each 
ear,  and  a  red  rose  stuck  in  the  bosom 
of  her  black  frock.  I  never  did  see  her 
look  so  takin'.  Mebby  I  kind  o'  looked, 
for  she  said,  '  What's  yer  hurry,  Moses ; 
stay  and  take  a  cup  o'  tea.'  So  I  staid. 
Arterwards,  while  her  mother  was 
clearin'  up  the  dishes,  we  went  and  sot 
in  the  porch,  an'  it  was  all  covered  over 
with  red  roses.  Purty  soon  Rhody  put 
the  corner  of  her  white  ap'on  in  her 
mouth,  an'  looked  down  awful  solemn." 

"  '  What's  the  matter,  Rhody  ? '  ses  I. 

"  '  Nothin',  Moses,  that  you  can  hen- 
der,'  ses  she.  'I'm  dre'ful  lonesome.' 

'"That's  nat'ral,  ses  I,  but  don't  cry. 
I'll  do  all  I  ken  to  chirk  ye  up.' 

"  '  Nobody  cares  for  me,  no  more,'  ses 
she,  an'  cried  the  harder,  an'  patted  her 
ap'on  on  her  eyes. 

"  '  Yer  ma  dus,  an'  I  du  tu,'  ses  I. 

"'0,  no,  yer  don't,'  ses  she,  'you  care 
for  Eirene  Yale ;  I've  allus  hearn  so.' 

"  '  Wa'al,  I  said,  ye  cared  for  Seth,  didn't 
yer;  why  don't  /cry  for  that?1 

"  'Cause  yer  don't  care,  and  yer  know 
yer  don't,'  ses  she,  and  wiped  her  eyes 
the  harder ;  '  an'  I'm  so  lonesome,  and 
yer  don't  care.' 

" '  Yes  I  du,'  ses  I,  '  an'  I'm  lonesome  tu, 
awful  lonesome,  Rhody ;  an'  peddlin' 
don't  pay,  nor  nothin'  else,  when  a  feller's 
so  mis'able.  Let's  make  up  ! '  An'  wa'al,  I 
kissed  her.  She  peaked  out  o'  the  cor 
ner  of  her  ap'on — I  saw  her  eye.  Lor! 
thar  warnt  a  tear  in  it!  Sech  a  luvin' 
look.  You  never  gin  me  such  a  look, 
Rene.  I'd  a  gone  on  my  knees  to  yer  if 
ye  had.  Such  a  luvin'  look  1  My  heart 
went  pit-pat  afore  I  knew  it.  That's  how 
it  wus.  Now,  I  know  you  may  try  to 
death,  an'  it  won't  pat  because  you  tell 
it,  an'  all  of  a  sudden  it'll  give  ajerk  when 
you're  least  a  lookin'.  That's  how  Rhody 


108 


EIREXE : 


and  I  made  up,  an*  you  see  it  might  be 
wus. " 

"  Worse !  I  don't  know  how  it  could 
well  have  been  better,"  exclaimed  Ei- 
rene,  laughing  in  perfect  delight  over 
Moses's  picture  of  his  courting.  "  You 
see  what  I  said  will  come  true,  and  I 
shall  see  you  married,  settled,  and  happy 
at  Hilltop." 

"  Well,  what  you  say  is  allus  true. 
Arter  all  I  believe  you  put  the  ideer  inter 
my  head.  I'll  allus  be  glad  to  see  yer.  Rene. 
Can't  say  as  much  fur  Rhody,  till  she  gets 
it  out  of  her  head  as  I  wouldn't  a  had 
her  if  you'd  a  had  me.  One  woman 
wouldn't  nat'rally  hanker  arter  another 
on  sech  a  principul.  But  I'll  allus  be 
glad  to  see  yer  callin'  round.  I'll  set 
jes  as  high  by  yer  as  long  as  yer  live  as 
ever  I  sot  ef  'tis  t'other  way.  My  blazes ! 
he's  cumin' !  The  sight  on  him  don't 
improve  my  sperrits  arter  all.  But  it's  all 
right.  Good-by,  Rene.  And  with  a  touch 
of  the  ancient  quaver  in  his  tone,  Moses 
turned  and  hurried  down  the  garden  path, 
while  a  carriage,  containing  two  ladies 
and  a  gentleman,  was  driven  up  to  the 
gate,  and  Eirene  with  radiant  face  arose 
to  meet  her  husband  of  to-morrow. 

A  perfect  morning  in  perfect  June 
saw  their  marriage  and  departure  to  the 
old  De  Peyster  house.  Eschewing  the 
modern  barbarism  which  gives  to  the  vul 
gar  gaze  cf  hirelings  and  strangers,  and 
to  the  discomforts  of  rail  cars  and  hotels 
the  most  sacred  month  of  life,  Pierre 
and  Eirene  went  to  spend  their  honey 
moon  in  their  own  home. 

The  feelings  of  Hilltop  were  deeply 
perturbed  by  this  wedding.  They  were 
injured  also,  for  not  a  Hilltopper  was  in 
vited  to  it.  And  the  dainty  box  of  cake 
with  its  snowy  cards,  which  found  its 
way  into  every  household  was  not  a 
compensation  for  the  fact  that  no  one 
witnessed  the  marriage  ceremony  outside 
of  the  two  families  concerned. 

The  Smoots  said,  "That  if  the  feller 
was  so  rich,  a  perfect  mill'onar  as  sum 
said,  why  was  the  weddin'  such  a  poor 
affair  in  the  little  old  house  without  a 
spec  of  new  furnitur  ?  That  Eirene  Vale 


could  go  from  sech  a  place  to  a  gran 
house  in  New  York  was  by  no  means 
likely — they  didn't  believe  a  word  of  it, 
or  that  the  feller  was  rich  or  in  any  way 
oncommon !  " 

Red-cheeked  Nancy  Drake,  who  long 
before  had  succumbed  to  destiny  in  the 
form  of  a  brown-faced  farmer,  and  set 
tled  on  the  old  mountain  after  all,  felt  oc 
casional  twinges  nevertheless  of  her  old 
desire  to  get  off  it  and  achieve  a  splendid 
fate  in  some  great  city.  She  declared  that 
she  would  like  to  know  what  there  was 
about  them  Vale  girls  that  they  should 
have  sech  luck  ?  she  couldn't  see  any 
thing  so  dre'full  taking  about  'em  for  her 
part.  Eirene  was  well  enuff — very  well 
— pious,  and  pokin',  but  as  for  Pansy 
Vale,  she  was  a  stuck  up  little  minx,  an' 
allus  had  been.  My !  when  she  hadn't 
anything  but  a  crust  of  rye  bread  for  her 
dinner  at  school,  she'd  eat  it  as  if  she 
owned  the  hull  earth,  an  she  couldn't  do 
no  more  when  she  cum  back  and  strut 
ted  up  an'  down  the  piazza  of  the  Pin- 
nerkel  House,  all  covered  with  Indy 
muslin  and  blue  ribbons ;  for  her  part  she 
thought  Indy  muslins  and  ribbons  very 
unekally  divided  in  this  world, — and  she 
looked  with  disgust  upon  the  ninepenny 
calico  in  which  she  was  doing  her  morn 
ing  churning. 

Farmer  Stave  said,  "Wa'al,  I  never 
thought  I'd  see  the  sight!  Neighbor 
Vale's  barn  mended  and  painted,  an'  his 
house  painted  stun  color,  an'  everything 
fixed  up  spic  and  span.  Why  he's  jes  as 
well  off  as  we  be  who've  grubb'd  an'  laid 
by  all  our  days.  That  aint  what  I  call 
ekal  compensation — that  him  that  haint 
laid  by  should  have  as  much  as  him  that 
has.  I  jes  say  it  aint  fair  that  a  man's 
got  jes  as  much  in  the  end,  as  if  he'd 
been  a  kalkeratin  all  his  life,  when  he 
aint  kalkerated  none.  For  ye  all  know," 
he  said  to  his  cronies,  and  he  struck  the 
bright  red  settle  of  the  fine  new  station- 
house  with  all  the  vim  that  he  ever  did 
the  old  bench  of  thirty  years  before — 
"you  all  know  as  neighbor  Vale  haint  a 
mite  of  kalkeration,  and  never  had." 


A  WoMAira  KIGHT. 


199 


CHAPTER  XXIII. 


ONE  DAT   OF  HER   LIFE. 


"  WHAT  are  you  thinking  of,  my  love  ?" 
asked  Pierre  De  Peyster  of  his  wile,  as 
he  came  back  to  her  sitting-room,  to  say 
good  morning,  before  going  to  his 
office,  where  she  sat  with  her  boy,  look 
ing  over  a  morning  journal. 

"  Thinking  of  what  I  have  found  in  the 
Tribune.  It  always  gives  me  something 
worth  thinking  about,"  she  said.  "  It  is 
an  editorial.  Here  in  another  paper  is  an 
advertisement.  Both  interest  one.  They 
set  me  to  thinking  till  I  forgot  that  I  had 
anything  to  do  to-day." 

"  Read  them  to  me?" 

"The  advertisement  says:  :  MRS. 
HELENA  MAYNARD  MALLANE  will  lecture 
to-night  at  Cooper's  Institute.  Subject, 
<:  THE  HUSBAND  OF  THE  PERIOD."  '  You 
remember  the  name  ?" 

''  Yes  indeed.  You  see  whatyou  have 
missed?  Personal  experience  with  the 
'  husband  of  the  period,'  and  the  chance  to 
tell  the  world  all  about  him  in  a  public 
hall.  Do  you  think  that  you  knew  him 
once  ?" 

"  Yes,  the  name  is  unusual.  I  never 
heard  of  it  in  another  family.  I  never 
heard  the  lady's.  Yet  my  impression  is 
that  she  is  Paul  Mallane's  wife.  Will 
you  go  with  me  to-night  to  hear  her?" 

"  Then  you  will  ask  me  to  do  one  of 
the  things  that  I  feel  perfectly  unequal 
to  doing,  to  listen  to  a  woman  lecture  in 
public  just  to  gratify  your  curiosity,  and 
yet  I  have  always  thought  you  remarka 
bly  free  from  curiosity  of  any  sort." 

"Perhaps  it  is  curiosity,  I  don't 
know  ;  but  then  it  is  something  more.  I 
do  want  to  hear  what  the  wife  of  Paul 
Mallane  has  to  say  on  such  a  subject." 

"  Well,  I'll  go ;  but  on  one  condition, 
that  you  wont  ask  me  to  listen  to  an 
other  woman  for  a  year!  It's  no  use, 
Eirene !  it's  in  my  grain — I  can't  like  to 
hear  a  woman  preach." 


"  I  wont  ask  you  to  go  again.  Thanks 
for  your  willingness  to  do  penance  to 
night." 

"  Perhaps  it  wont  be  penance  after  all. 
I'm  perfectly  willing  to  hear  Paul  Mal 
lane  berated  myself,  and  to  be  with  you 
is  ever  delightful,  even  in  the  catacomb  of 
Cooper's  Institute." 

"Hear  your  papa,  bahy !  Isn't  he  a 
gallant  gentleman?"  said  the  happy 
'  Eirene,  lifting  up  her  two-year  old  boy. 
His  father  seized  him,  seated  him  on  his 
knee,  and  began  to  tickle  his  nose. 
"  My  poppa  is  a  gallan'  gemon,"  cried  the 
boy. 

'•  Your  papa  is  a  ten-gallon  gentleman," 
said  Dr.  De  Peyster.  "  What  about  the 
editorial,  Eirene?" 

Oh,  it's  one  of  the  Tribune's  best  on 
marriage.  Don't  you  think  the  Tribune 
very  true  and  consistent  on  that  subject, 
Pierre  ?  It  never  swerves  in  its  defence 
of  marriage,  as  the  one  sacred,  eternal 
unity  which  must  bind  man  and  woman 
and  society  together  forever.  No  man 
living  is  truer  to  this  faith  than  Mr. 
Greeley,  no  one  would  suffer  more  for  it. 
Why  do  some  journals  accuse  the  Tribune 
of  being  a  nest  for  every  crazy  ism  ?  It 
is  not  true,  and  it  is  too  bad,  isn't  it 
Pierre  ?" 

"Very  likely.  You  know  I'm  not  up 
to  you  in  enthusiasm  for  the  philosopher ; 
but  I  believe  in  him.  What  has  he  been 
sayin<r?" 

"  I'll  read  the  editorial  this  evening; 
you  will  say  it  is  too  long  for  now.  What 
set  me  to  thinking  is  this  quotation  in  it, 
taken  from  another  paper,  the  text  which 
the  editorial  preaches  against.  This  is  it : 
'  'Tis  true  that  women  can  and  do  exert 
great  influence  over  men,  after  swaying 
them  into  courses  they  would  not  other 
wise  pursue ;  but  it  will  be  found  this 
influence  rarely  proceeds  from  the  wife. 
•  •  •  The  influence  of  the  wife  as 


200 


EIRENE : 


such  forms  no  part  of  the  power  of 
society.' " 

"  Do  you  believe  that,  Pierre  ?" 

"No,  I  do  not." 

"  I  was  thinking  how  much  power 
was  your  own  before  you  married  me, — 
the  power  of  your  manhood,  the  power 
of  your  wealth,  of  your  intelligence,  and 
of  your  goodness ;  and  if  to  all  these  any 
thing  could  be  added  through  the  influ 
ence  of  your  wife  ?" 

"  My  wife  is  my  inspiration,  and  my 
help  every  moment  of  my  life.  I  am 
twice  the  man  that  I  was  before  you 
married  me,"  and  Pierre  De  Peyster 
leaned  over  the  head  of  his  boy  and 
kissed  his  wife. 

"  I  am  twice  the  woman  that  I  was 
before  I  loved  you.  It  comes  to  me 
every  day,  a  fresh  sense  of  new  power, 
sweet  and  strong.  Why,  Pierre,  I  think 
more  clearly,  I  do  more,  I  love  the  whole 
human  race  more,  because  I  love  you.  I 
was  thinking  when  you  came  in,  how  it 
would  be  if  you  were  a  poor  man  and 
had  to  build  up  your  own  fortune  in  the 
world,  how  we  would  work  together 
and  in  what  ways  I  might  help  you. 
But  if,  in  addition  to  what  God  has  given 
me,  so  much  strength  comes  to  me 
through  you,  how  can  it  be  that  my  in 
fluence  as  a  wife  can  form  no  part  of  the 
power  of  society  ?  " 

"Why,  it  cannot  be.  That  is  one  of 
the  extreme  statements  which  the  tearers 
down  of  society  make  every  day,  and 
which  every  day  refutes,  and  yet,  Rene, 
even  I  admit  that  woman's  power  in 
society  as  a  wife  has  not  been  and  is  not 
all  that  it  might  be,  or  ought  to  be.  I 
don't  believe  in  the  English  Common  Law 
in  all  its  bearings  upon  women,  if  I  am 
down  upon  ranters  who  are  trying  to 
turn  women  into  men.  Why,  what 
makes  you  open  your  eyes  so  ?" 

"  With  wonder  1  when  did  you  come 
to  such  a  conclusion  ?" 

"  I  came  to  it  long  ago.  Am  I  a  hea 
then  if  I  am  a  fogy  ?  Suppose  you  were 
in  the  furnishing  shop  still,  and  I  was  a 
drunken  '  cuss,'  and  yet  the  law  gave  me 
the  right  to  take  up  all  your  wages  and 
spend  them  for  liquor,  you  don't  believe 
in  my  sober  senses,  I  would  uphold  such 


a  law  against  wives  as  that,  do  you  ? 
You  can't  think  of  the  time,  Rene,that  you 
ever  heard  me  even  excuse  the  diabolical 
disabilities  in  law  which  men  have  heaped 
upon  women.  Since  you  have  been  my 
wife,  I  have  felt  it  more  and  more  keenly, 
so  there's  one  proof  of  your  power  as  a 
wife.  And  I  candidly  believe  that  when  a 
whole  race  of  wives  just  like  you  rise  up 
from  a  new  basis  of  womanly  education, 
thought,  and  feeling,  there  will  be  a 
whole  race  of  husbands  as  thoroughly 
ashamed  of  mannish  tyranny  as  I  am." 

"  Oh,  how  grand  you  make  me  feel ! 
We  will  try  to  do  better  than  ever  before, 
won't  we,  baby  ?" 

"  Well,  both  of  you  may  try.  But 
now  speak  your  piece,  Rene.  In  all  the 
time  that  I  have  known  you,  I  have 
never  heard  you  say  what  you  believe 
to  be  your  '  Woman's  Right.'  Come,  tell 
me  now.  I'll  give  you  five  whole  min 
utes  for  it,  and  Pierre  looked  at  his 
watch. 

"  Oh,  I  never  could  do  anything,  just 
because  I  was  told  to  do  so,  and  to  time 
me  puts  everything  out  of  my  head." 

"  Proof  you  are  not  yet  prepared  to  go 
to  Congress.  Suppose  a  subject  of  life 
and  death  to  the  nation  was  being  dis 
cussed  under  the  five  minutes'  rule,  and 
the  result  on  the  lovely  member  from 
New  York  was  to  make  her  sink  down 
in  hopeless  confusion  with  nothing  in 
her  head ! " 

"Stop,  Pierre,  I  don't  want  to  go  to 
Congress." 

"Nor  do  I  want  you  to  go.  Pretty  fix 
baby  and  I'd  be  in,  with  nobody  to  take 
care  of  us  or  to  make  us  behave.  But 
come  now,  the  '  Rights ! '  Listen,  baby ! 
mamma's  going  to  expound  her  rights. 

"  Mamma's  'ites  !  "  cried  baby. 

"  The  first,  to  love  and  take  care  of  you, 
blessed  boy!"  exclaimed  Eirene,  seizing 
him. 

"  No !  the  first  is  to  love  and  to  take 
care  of  me.  I  will  not  play  second  to 
such  a  mite  of  humanity." 

"  No,  nor  to  anything  on  earth  with 
me,"  said  Eirene. 

"  But  come,  Rene,  won't  you  explain 
your  rights  ?  The  next  time  Livingston 
asks  me  what  my  wife  thinks  about  all 


A  WOMAN'S  RIGHT. 


201 


this  outcry,  I  want  to  tell  him.  When 
he  asked  last,  I  said  that  I  had  never 
heard  you  say  what  you  thought  your 
rights  were,  but  I  noticed  that  you  went 
on  and  took  them,  so  I  thought  you 
knew.  We  have  changed  our  minds, 
haven't  we,  baby  ?  Mamma  don't  know 
her  rights;  couldn't  tell  us  if  she  tried." 

"  0  yes,  I  could,  and  if  you  really  want 
me  to — " 

"  I  thought  that  would  fetch  them," 
said  Pierre,  laughing. 

"  Well,  Pierre,"  Eirene  went  on,  look- 
a  little  like  a  culprit,  "  if  you  will  know, 
I  think,  as  a  human  being,  that  I  was 
born  with  every  right  that  you  were. 
That  as  a  human  being  there  is  no  right 
dear  to  you  that  is  not  equally  dear  to 
me.  My  humanity,  with  all  its  possi 
bilities  and  privileges,  is  worth  just  as 
much  to  me  as  to  you.  And  I  have  the 
right  to  equal  opportunity  to  develop 
through  it  every  power  that  God  has 
given  me — the  right  to  equal  justice  be 
fore  the  law. " 

"  So  far  true,  what  next  ?  " 

"  Yet  I  remember  that  I  am  a  woman 
as  well  as  a  human  being — that  my 
womanhood  involves  many  second  con 
siderations.  As  a  man,  you  might  ques 
tion  the  fitness  of  a  course  which,  as  a 
human  being,  you  have  a  perfect  right 
to  pursue,  but  no  woman  could  decide  it 
for  you,  or  lay  down  the  lines  of  being 
or  of  action  for  you.  So  I  think  of  my 
self.  I  suppose  I  have  the  natural  right 
to  do  many  things  which,  as  a  woman, 
I  may  not  even  wish  to  do.  My  per 
sonal  obligations  are  more  to  me  than 
my  abstract  rights.  What  I  owe  my 
husband  and  child  is  the  first  and  deep 
est  obligation  of  my  life,  but  not  my 
only  one.  If  I  had  no  husband  or  child, 
if  I  were  a  solitary  force  in  the  world, 
I  deny  the  right  of  any  man  to  set  a  lim 
it  to  my  advancement,  as  I  deny  mine  to 
set  a  limit  to  his.  There  is  where  I  find 
fault  with  you  men,  Pierre.  You  take  it 
upon  yourselves  to  say  just  in  what  way 
and  how  far  a  woman  shall  be  educated 
— just  how  far  she  shall  have  any  chance 
to  make  the  best  of  herself.  Equal 
chance !  Why,  men  never  thought  of 
such  a  thing,  and  then  they  pronounce 


on  our  inferiority.  Darling,  I  never  had 
an  equal  chance  with  you  since  I  was 
born.  As  a  woman,  I  could  not  have 
had  it  if  I  had  been  born  to  the  same 
condition  in  life.  George  William  Cur 
tis  never  spoke  truer  words  than  the 
other  evening  when  he  said,  '  There  is 
nothing  so  barbaric  as  for  one  human 
being  to  say  to  another,  "Thus  far  you 
shall  be  developed,  and  no  further,"  and 
that  there  is  no  other  subject  on  which 
so  much  intolerable  nonsense  is  talked 
as  upon  the  sphere  of  women.'  Why, 
Pierre,  how  can  anybody,  man  or  woman, 
get  very  far  out  of  their  sphere  ?  God 
and  Nature  have  set  bounds  in  every  in 
dividual  which  cannot  be  overpassed. 
Only  no  one  can  decide  for  another.  I 
never  can  give  up  that*  Power  is  the 
measure  of  function  in  any  human  being. 
Circumstance  or  custom  may  curtail  its 
exercise,  they  cannot  destroy  its  right." 

"My  son,   the   deed  is  done!"   said 
Pierre   with   mock    solemnity.     "  Your 
mamma  has  spoken  her  little  piece  which 
I  have  waited  to  hear  for  four  long  years. 
It  would  have  won  her  applause  in  a 
Woman's  Suffrage  Convention.     All  the 
sisters    on    the    platform   would    have.'--, 
clapped   their  hands    could    they  haveH 
heard  it,  and  here  it  has  all  been  ex 
pended  on  one  big  unbeliever  and  one     ^ 
small  boy  with  a  ridiculous  nose." 

"  Pierre,  don't  laugh  at  his  nose.  I 
have  pinched  it  up  this  very  morning, 
and  its  bridge  grows  higher  every  day." 

"  Nevertheless,  you  will  not  be  out  ol 
occupation  for  several  years  if  you  are 
determined  to  pinch  it  into  a  respectable 
nose." 

"Now,  Pierre!" 

"Well,  I  wont  teaze  you,  Rene;  he 
has  his  mother's  eyes — they  are  enough 
for  me  if  he  had  no  nose." 

"  He  has  his  father's  head,  that  is 
enough  for  me.  He  looks  like  his  father, 
and  his  father  is  the  handsomest  man  in 
the  world." 

"  Certainly  he  is !  And  he  is  the  im 
age  of  his  mother,  and  she  is  the  loveliest 
woman  in  the  world.  And  now,  pet,  I 
must  go." 

'•  And  you  are  not  vexed  with  me, 
Pierre  ?  " 


202 


EIREKE : 


"  What  about  ?  " 

"  Why,  about  what  I  think." 

"What  do  I  care  what  you  think? 
You're  a1  the  world  to  me." 

"  You  know  you  would  make  me  say, 
and  I  couldn't  say  anything  but  what  I 
believe,  and  you  don't  think  I'm  so  very 
wrong?  " 

"  Wrong !  I  think  you  are  very  right, 
according  to  your  century ;  only.  Rene, 
it's  the  slow  old  blood  in  me  that  rebels 
against  '  the  resistless  tendency  of  the 
times,'  as  Curtis  calls  it.  I  stick  to  it, 
some  of  the  women  who  go  about  in 
conventions  say  and  do  the  craziest 
things,  yet,  as  a  thinking  man,  and  a 
man  who  desires  to  be  just,  I  cannot 
deny  that  the  immutable  law  of  human 
growth  underlies  this  universal  uprising 
of  women.  Only  it's  a  trifle  formidable, 
you  must  allow  that,  to  us  poor  fellows, 
the  prospect  of  our  sisters  getting  att 
their  rights  I  We  are  such  selfish  dogs, 
we  like  our  comfort  so  much,  that  I'll 
own  to  you,  Rene,  and  you  wont  tell 
anybody  (laughing),  that  it  is  the  mere 
selfishness  and  prejudice  of  the  man  usu 
ally  that  speaks  when  he  makes  such 
furious  objection  to  woman's  advance- 

ent,  and  lays  down  anew  the  old  limit 
of  his  sphere  for  her.  If  a  man  is  half 
a  man,  Rene,  his  wife  is  more  to  him 
than  all  the  earth  beside ;  imagine  his 
distress,  then,  at  the  bare  thought  of 
her  vanishing  away  in  the  scholar  or 
reformer." 

"  Yes,  Pierre,  but  think  of  the  thou 
sands  upon  thousands  of  women  who 
have  hungered  all  their  lives  for  knowl 
edge,  and  died  with  the  hunger  unsatis 
fied,  accepting  ignorance  to  please  their 
husbands." 

"  Well,  there  is  no  danger  of  my  wife 
dying  of  that  hunger,  I've  that  consola 
tion." 

"  Yet,  Pierre,  how  little  I  know  com 
pared  with  you  !  Think  of  all  the  col 
leges,  and  universities,  and  everything 
that  you  have  been  to,  and  I  know  noth 
ing  but  the  little  I  have  picked  up  here 
and  there  without  any  one  to  tell  me 
how." 

"  Yet  I  have  found  out  that  such  pa 
tient  and  persistent  picking  up  as  yours 


has  been  amounts  now  to  quite  a  form 
idable  pile.  All  the  universities  and  ev 
erything  can  scarcely  be  put  against  such 
an  absolute  and  unending  habit  of  study 
as  you  have  attained.  What  astonishes 
me  is  that  it  is  increasing,  and  that  you 
find  just  as  much  time  for  it  as  ever. 
You  dreadful  woman !  with  all  I  have 
to  think  of,  do  you  intend  to  compel  me 
to  drag  forth  my  old  exercise  books,  or 
else  feel  like  an  ignoramus  compared 
with  my  wife  ?  Do  tell  what  it  is  all 
for?" 

"  For  baby  I  Bless  him !  "  exclaimed 
Eirene,  drawing  her  boy  tight  to  her 
heart.  "  Oh,  Pierre,  how  could  I  bear 
it  to  have  him  grow  up  and  grow  away 
from  me  in  his  thought  and  pursuits, 
and  perhaps  secretly  scorn  his  mother 
because  she  was  a  woman  and  didn't 
know  anything ;  how  dreadful !  " 

"  How  dreadful  if  he  should  grow  up, 
jump  into  the  fire,  and  burn  himself  to 
death.  Scorn  your  mother,  young  man ! 
That  would  be  a  sorry  day  for  you,  if 
your  father  had  life  enough  left  in  him 
to  thrash  you ! 

"  I  think  of  giving  up  all  out-door 
pursuits,  and  of  spending  the  entire  time 
at  home  with  my  wife,"  said  Pierre,  in 
his  most  humorous  tone,  looking  once 
more  at  his  watch.  "  How  would  you 
like  that,  Eirene  ?  " 

"  I  wouldn't  like  it  at  all.  You  would 
hinder  me,  and  I  should  lose  the  happi 
ness  of  thinking  of  your  evening  return 
all  day,  and  you  wouldn't  be  so  much  of 
a  man." 

1:I  would  not  1  then  it's  just  possible 
you  might  hinder  me  I  Come,  Master 
Vale  De  Peyster,  escort  your  father  to 
the  door,"  and  he  hoisted  the  boy  with 
"a  ridiculous  nose"  to  his  shoulder,  who 
shouted  with  glee  at  his  elevation. 

His  wife  took  his  other  hand,  and  thus 
the  three  came  through  the  broad  hall 
toward  the  street  door. 

Let  us  look  at  them  as  they  come. 

Four  years  have  passed  since  this  hus 
band  and  wife  entered  the  old  house.  A 
glance  is  sufficient  to  see  that  they  are 
not  only  happier  but  handsomer  than 
they  were  then.  To  this  woman  has 
come  the  fulness  and  perfection  of  exist- 


A  WOMAN'S  RIGHT. 


203 


ence  and  she  shows  it.  To  the  man  has 
come  the  fulness  and  completeness  of  his 
being  and  he  shows  it :  shows  it  in  the 
firm,  free  step,  in  the  clear  glance  of  his 
eyes,  in  the  blended  consciousness  of 
power  and  happiness  which  radiates  from 
him  in  every  glance  and  gesture. 

There  are  two  types  of  American 
women.  One  at  thirty  is  hopelessly  old. 
With  first  youth  vanished  the  last  ves 
tige  of  beauty,  nothing  has  ever  come  to 
take  its  place.  To  the  other,  with  wife- 
hood  and  mother-hood  begins  rejuvena 
tion,  a  second  youth,  riper  and  more  lus 
trous  than  the  first.  This  has  come  to 
Eirene.  She  looks  fulkr  and  taller  than 
when  we  saw  her  last.  Love  and  happi 
ness,  the  only  real  beautifiers  of  women, 
have  done  their  best  for  her.  There 
is  the  sweetness  and  purity  of  health 
in  her  fine  contour.  There  is  the  ever- 
increasing  light  of  an  ever-growing  soul 
shining  through  her  eyes.  She  was 
never  so  lovely  a  woman  before. 

It  is  difficult  to  write  of  such  happiness 
as  theirs.  The  pen,  rarely  failing  when 
it  depicts  woe,  falters  at  the  very  thres 
hold  of  joy.  Sorrow  is  so  real,  there  is 
relief  in  its  very  cry.  But  bliss  is  so 
subtle,  and  spiritual,  its  finest  essence  is 
rarely  caught  and  imprisoned  in  words. 

William  Morris  tells  us  of  this  in  lines 
whose  melody  is  rarely  surpassed : — 

"  Of  their  bliss 

Nought  may  we  tell,  for  so  it  is 
That  verse  for  battle-song  is  meet, 
And  sings  of  sorrow  piercing-sweet, 
And  weaves  the  tale  of  heavy  years, 
And  hopeless  grief  that  knows  no  tears, 
Yet  hath  no  voice  to  tell  of  Heaven. 
Or  heavenly  joys  for  long  years  given, 
Themselves  an  unmatched  melody, 
Where  fear  is  slain  of  victory, 
And  hope  held  fast  in  arms  of  love." 

The  husband  goes  forth  to' the  business 
of  daily  life ;  the  wife  turns  back  to  look 
after  the  ways  of  her  household.  There 
is  no  department  in  it  that  she  does  not 
supervise,  and  no  room  in  the  old  house 
that  she  does  not  enter.  Her  boy  goes 
with  her;  sometimes  he  sits  beside  her, 
sometimes  he  is  in  her  arms,  sometimes  he 
is  tugging  at  her  skirt.  It  is  a  fair  sight  1 
If  the  old  De  Peysters  in  their  frames 
could  but  see  it,— or  if  in  the  air  invisible 
they  look  down  upon  it,  grand  Johanes 


De  Peyster  in  his  curled  wig,  lace  ruffles 
and  gown,  or  the  gallant,  handsome  Colo 
nel  Arent  Schuyler  De  Peyster,  whom  her 
husband  so  much  resembles,  or  Cornelia 
De  Peyster,  his  mother, — it  is  a  fair  sight 
for  their  eyes,  which  now  must  measure 
all  things  by  immutable  measure,  and 
weigh  all  things  in  absolute  balance,  the 
vision  of  this  mother  of  the  nineteenth 
century  and  her  child  in  the  old  house — 
and  that  child  a  De  Peyster. 

Noon  had  not  come,  when  Eirene  and 
her  boy  and  his  faithful  little  nurse  en 
tered  a  quiet  carriage  and  drove  up  town. 
Her  days  held  no  happier  part  than  this 
toward  which  she  was  going  now. 

Most  of  us  at  some  time  lie  and  dream 
what  we  would  do  if  we  were  only  rich. 
This  had  been  Eirene's  solitary  pastime 
in  the  old  days  before  the  war,  when  her 
work  and  her  lessons  were  over,  to  sit 
or  lie  in  the  dark  and  ponder  on  what 
she  would  do  if  she  were  rich.  After 
portioning  each  member  of  her  family, 
her  darling  project  was  to  build  a  large 
house  of  rest  and  help  for  women.  She 
meditated  long  on  the  name  of  that 
house.  She  turned  instinctively  from 
all  which  in  their  dubious  significance 
were  a  hurt  and  a  discouragement  to  the 
erring  at  the  very  beginning.  "THE 
WOMAN'S  HELP,"  that  should  be  its 
name,  and  no  woman  should  be  too  old, 
or  too  young,  too  needy,  or  too  fallen, 
to  be  helped  within  its  walls.  The  mo 
ments  which  she  gave  to  devising  and 
planning  its  interior  were  incredible. 
Herein  should  lowly  women  rest  if  they 
were  weary,  and  be  nursed  if  they  were 
sick.  Here  womanly  handicrafts  should 
be  taught  to  girls,  and  places  of  employ 
ment  be  provided  for  the  worthy.  The 
vision  of  this  Woman's  Help  vanished 
during  the  war  under  the  stress  of  a 
mightier  need,  and  yet  now  she  was 
driving  toward  it  this  morning,  a  reality 
in  brick  and  mortar.  Like  all  realities 
it  failed  of  the  utmost  splendor  of  its 
dream,  yet  it  tips  already  a  prosperous 
and  practical  house  which,  without  loud 
ado,  provided  actual  help  and  encourage 
ment  to  many  hundreds  of  women  in  a 
year.  Her  husband  had  given  to  her  two 
brick  houses  which  had  been  thrown  into 


204 


El  RENE : 


one  large  one.  Every  nook  and  corner 
in  it  had  been  utilized  to  practical  ser 
vice.  Other  ladies  had  gladly  co-oper 
ated,  and  the  "Woman's  Help"  was  a 
nucleus  for  the  daily  illustration  of  a 
woman's  highest  right  to  minister  to  the 
needy  and  afflicted.  Certain  hours  of 
certain  days  of  every  week  found  Eirene 
in  this  beloved  spot.  And  now  she  was 
devoting  a  portion  of  the  morning,  as  she 
always  did,  to  the  stories  of  the  lately 
arrived,  before  deciding  on  just  the  thing 
to  be  done  for  them.  It  never  wearied 
or  fretted  her  to  hear  of  the  troubles  of 
others,  where  she  had  the  slightest 
chance  of  alleviating  them.  Yet  it  was 
not  always  aperfectly  easy  thing  to  do,  to 
adapt  every  thought  or  suggestion  to  the 
entire  satisfaction  of  the  story-teller. 
This  morning,  a  poor  girl,  dirty,  way 
worn,  who  had  lost  her  situation  through 
sickness,  who  had  taken  refuge  with  "  a 
cousin,"  who  had  at  last  been  turned  off 
to  want  or  vice,  who  had  hovered  on  the 
border  of  both,  and  had  been  rescued  be- 
•  fore  it  was  too  late,  and  who  now  held 
up  a  sickly  face  and  wasted  hands  to  her 
more  prosperous  sister — she,  in  the  little 
parlor  of  the  "  Help,"  looked  first  at  the 
beautiful  boy,  playing  at  a  table  with  his 
nurse,  then  at  the  lady  before  her,  so 
plainly  dressed  that  nothing  she  wore 
could  arouse  envy  or  jealousy  in  the 
mind  of  the  most  unfortunate,  and  yet 
carrying  on  her  face  a  light  of  happiness 
that  a  queen  might  envy — she  looked  at 
the  child,  then  on  this  happy  face,  the 
poor  girl,  and  burst  in  tears. 

"It's  no  use;  I  can't  tell  you,  lady, 
what  I've  been  through ;  you  couldn't 
understand  how  a  poor  girl  like  me  has 
been  tried.  You  don't  know  what  it  is 
for  a  girl  to  come  to  this  great  city  poor 
and  all  alone.  How  could  you  ?  There's 
a  great  difference  between  the  like  of 
you  and  me.  I  can't  tell  you — you  don't 
know  anything  about  it,"  and  she  sobbed 
anew. 

"  I  know  all  about  it,"  was  the  answer; 
and  the  gentle  sympathy  of  the  tone 
seemed  to  hush  the  girl's  sobs  at  once. 

"My  dear  sister,"  said  Eirene,  leaning 
forward  and  taking  the  wasted  hand, 
"years  ago  I  came  to  this  city  alone.  I 


was  young,  and  poor,  and  unprotected. 
I  had  seen  nobody  in  it.  I  did  not  even 
know  my  way  through  the  streets.  I 
did  not  know  then,  but  as  I  look  back  I 
see  how  many  dangers  the  good  Father 
helped  me  to  escape.  A  great  many 
difficulties  and  dangers  beset  a  young 
woman  trying  to  earn  an  honest  living 
in  a  great  city  which  never  trouble  a 
young  man ;  there  is  so  much  peril  in  it 
that  I  should  dread  beyond  expression 
to  have  one  I  love  exposed  to  it,  and 
yet  I  believe  that  if  a  young  woman  is 
honest,  industrious,  patient,  faithful,  and 
modest,  and  prays  to  God  day  by  day 
for  protection  and  wisdom,  that  she  is 
always  protected  and  saved  to  the  end. 
Kind  friends  are  raised  up  for  her,  new 
opportunities  are  opened  to  her,  and 
though  she  may  not  attain  to  just  the 
condition  that  she  would  wish,  yet  she 
may  achieve  independence  and  success." 

"You  believe  itl  and  you  knowl" 
said  the  girl  with  a  look  of  amazed  in 
credulity. 

"  I  believe  it,  and  I  know,"  said  Ei 
rene. 

"You  don't  look  as  if  you  had  ever 
been  poor,  or  sick,  or  unhappy." 

"God  has  been  very  good  to  me," 
said  Eirene,  with  the  old  tremble  in  her 
voice ;  "  He  has  given  to  me  so  much 
more  than  I  have  ever  earned,  or  can  ever 
deserve.  Yet  I  know  what  it  is  to  be 
sick  and  unhappy  and  very  poor." 

"  How  strange!  and  you  feel  for  me!  " 

"  I  feel  for  every  creature  that  God 
has  made  who  suffers,  but  nothing  seems 
to  come  quite  so  close  to>  my  heart  as  a 
struggling  and  a  suffering  woman." 

"  And  yet  you  believe  that  a  poor  girl 
like  me  can  work  her  way  up  to  some 
thing  better  ?  " 

"  I  do.  No  honest  industrious  girl  need 
go  unprotected  in  this  city.  There  are 
thousands  of  homes  open  to-day  to  any 
good  girl  who  would  enter  andldentify 
herself  with  their  life  and  service." 

"  Oh,  but  you  forget,  not  many  ladies 
speak  to  the  like  of  us  as  you  do;  if  they 
did  there  would  be  better  girls  in  ser 
vice." 

"  Yes,  mistress  and  maid  both  owe  more 
to  each  other.  There  is  not  patience,  for- 


A  WOMAN'S  RIGHT. 


205 


bearance,  and  sympathy,  or  willingness  to 
teach  on  one  side,  nor  fidelity,  truth,  and 
industry  enough  on  the  other.  But 
come,  you  will  trust  me? — and  I  will 
trust  you.  I  have  a  friend  who  wants  a 
faithful  girl  to  take  charge  of  her  only 
child.  Such  a  one  will  have  time  given 
her  to  study,  and  when  the  child  ceases 
to  need  her  to  learn  any  business  to 
which  she  feels  adapted.  I  will  tell  my 
friend  that  I  believe  you  will  do  well  for 
her ;  that  what  you  do  not  know  now, 
you  will  take  pains  to  learn.  If  you 
adapt  yourself  to  it,  you  could  scarcely 
have  a  better  home.  Shall  I  tell  her  this 
of  you?  " 

"  Will  you,  can  you  ?  Oh,  lady,  look 
at  my  clothes;  nobody  would  take  in 
such  a  looking  creature  as  me." 

"  Never  mind  your  clothes.  Before  I 
leave  we  will  go  up  stairs  to  a  closet  full 
of  clothes,  and  we  will  look  for  a  suit  that 
will  fit  you.  Besides,  you  are  not  ready 
for  anything  just  now  but  rest.  Your 
body  is  not  half  so  sick  to-day  as  your 
poor  worried  mind  and  heart.  Here  is 
a  ticket  for  a  quiet  little  room  in  .this 
house,  which  will  be  yours  till  you  are 
rested  and  ready  for  a  new  life.  Here 
is  another  for  the  table,  where  you  will 
find  good,  nourishing  food.  I'll  not  set 
any  time.  When  you  are  able,  I  know 
you  will  come  to  my  home  some  day 
before  noon,  and  I  will  go  with  you  to 
my  friend.  I  feel  quite  certain  that  it 
will  prove  satisfactory  to  all." 

"  How  could  I  fail  any  one  who  looks 
at  me  as  you  do !  Why,  lady,  I  feel  as  if 
I  would  rather  die  than  disappoint  you. 
Why  has  nobody  in  all  my  life  ever 
spoken  to  me  like  you  before  ?  " 

"  Oh,  you  could  not  have  lived  till  now 
without  meeting  kindness.  You  are 
tired  and  worn  out.  Life  always  seems 
harder  to  us  at  such  times." 

"  Oh,  I  don't  say  nobody  has  ever 
spoken  kindly  before,  but  not  feeling, 
not  like  you." 

"  To  feel  anything  we  must  have  ex 
perienced  it.  It  is  not  easy  to  be  sym 
pathetic  always  with  what  we  do  not 
understand.  Many  kind  ladies  know 
nothing  actually  of  what  you  have  lived 
through.  I  know  it  all,  thus  how  can  I 


help  feeling  for  you?  Now,  if  I  can  truly 
help  you,  I  shall  be  satisfied." 

"  Help  me  !  you  have  saved  me.  An 
other  day  of  want,  of  homelessness,  and 
hopelessness  and  it  seems  as  if  there 
were  nothing  that  I  might  not  have 
done.  God  has  given  a  friend  even  to 
me!" 

The  thought  seemed  more  than  she 
could  bear  in  its  wonder  and  joy,  for  as 
she  spoke  she  sank  forward  on  the  table. 

The  tears  started 'to  Eirene's  eyes,  but 
she  brushed  them  away  in  an  instant. 

"Come,"  she  said  in  a  cheerful  tone, 
"we  will  go  and  see  how  nice  a  frock 
we  can  find."  And  without  giving  the 
girl  another  moment  for  grief,  she  took 
her  hand,  and  led  her  away. 

Many  months  have  passed  since  then, 
and  the  friendless  and  hopeless  girl  of 
that  morning,  in  a  happy  home  to-day 
is  working  her  way  surely  toward  edu 
cation  and  honorable  independence. 
God  bless,  and  help  her !  And  the 
thousands  of  American  women,  who  like 
her,  poor,  young,  and  lonely,  in  the  be 
ginning,  through  their  own  powers  and 
by  the  labor  of  their  own  hands,  must 
measure  the  utmost  arc  of  success  which 
can  be  earned  by  the  self-supporting 
woman. 

Eirene  came  through  Park  Avenue  on 
her  way  back  and  stopped  and  lunched 
with  her  two  sisters.  There  was  no 
semblance  of  a  shadow  between  her  and 
Cornelia  now.  Nothing  troubles  a 
naturally  noble  soul  so  much  as  a  sus 
picion  that  itself  has  stooped  to  some 
thing  like  littleness  if  not  meanness. 
Cornelia  survived  all  the  "  oh's"  and 
"  ah's,"  the  shrugs  and  glances  of  "  her 
set"  at  her  brother's  marriage,  and 
wondered  when  over  that  they  had  been 
so  few.  After  all,  we  must  do  something 
startlingly  eccentric,  or  "  awfully  "  shock 
ing  to  become  the  objects  of  absolute  in 
terest  to  our  neighbors.  Our  little  tame 
outre  affairs  cannot  make  more  than  a 
passing  ripple  in  their  daily  comment, 
overtaken  and  swept  out  by  the  first 
wave  of  something  "perfectly  dreadful." 
If  Pierre  De  Peyster  had  only  married 
his  sister's  ignorant  cook,  that  would 
have  been  worth  exclaiming  over,  but 


206 


EIRENE : 


to  marry  a  book-keeper,  who  in  spite  of 
that  was  a  lady  and  better  educated 
than  themselves,  though  they  wondered 
at  his  taste,  it  was  his  own  affair  and  in 
no  degree  interesting  to  anybody  but 
himself.  Nobody  need  be  surprised  at 
any  act  of  independence  in  Pierre  De 
Peyster.  Had  he  not  always  done  pre 
cisely  as  he  pleasecf  I 

Therefore  comparatively  no  surprise 
was  shown,  to  the  infinite  relief  and  self- 
shame  of  Cornelia.  There  came  a  day 
when  she  could  bear  the  pricking  of  her 
conscience  no  longer,  when  she  appeared 
alone  in  Eirene's  room,  and  sittting 
down  confessed  the  worst  feeling  she 
had  ever  had  concerning  her ;  how  she 
had  always  liked  her,  and  yet  what  a 
coward,  what  a  mean  coward  she 
had  been,  for  the  fear  of  her  world 
and  her  set,  and  the  overthrow  of  her 
first  darling  plan. 

"It  wa«  perfectly  natural,"  said  Eirene ; 
"  how  could  you  feel  otherwise,  as  the 
world  looked  to  you.  You  must  have 
seen  hundreds  who  seemed  better 
adapted  to  be  your  brother's  wife  than  I. 
I  have  only  wondered  how  you  could  be 
so  affectionate  to  me." 

"  Then  you  don't  mind,  you  darling?  " 

"  How  can  I  when  you  are  so  good  to 
me.  How  can  I  help  loving  Pierre's 
sister  for  his  sake,  and  her  own  ?  " 

"I  love  you,  Rene,  better  than  any 
woman  that  I  ever  knew,  I  do !  " 

Whereupon  the  two  women  looked 
into  each  other's  eyes,  and  then  threw 
their  arms  around  each  other's  necks,  and 
from  that  hour  had  been  sisters  indeed. 
There  could  be  no  happier  sight  to  Pierre 
De  Peyster  than  this.  He  did  not  tell 
his  wife  yet,  it  was  true,  that  the  compar 
ison  of  .Cornelia's  superficial  and  object 
less  life  with  the  intellectual  activity  and 
spiritual  freedom  of  Eirene's  had  forced 
him  almost  against  his  will  to  modify  his 
opinion  of  woman's  education  and  work. 
He  reproached  himself  in  silence  for  the 
part  he  had  taken  in  his  sister's  early 
loveless  marriage ;  and  for  the  arro 
gance  and  prejudice  with  which  he 
had  curtailed  her  education,  and  given 
her  to  understand  that  marriage  and 
nothing  but  marriage  could  be  her  des 


tiny  as  a  woman.  "  If  I  had  left  to  her," 
he  said,  "  the  same  right  that  I  claimed 
for  myself,  to  wait,  solitary  and  free,  till 
she  had  met  the  one  she  would  have 
chosen  out  of  all  the  world,  and  who 
could  have  loved  her  as  she  loved  him, 
how  different,  how  much  more  complete 
would  be  her  life  now.  I  know  that  I 
am  in  part  responsible  for  what  it  is." 

This  thought  was  the  bitterest  that 
Pierre  had  ever  had.  Cornelia  did  not 
dream  that  there  was  a  touch  of  remorse 
in  the  very  tenderness  of  the  kiss  with 
which  he  left  her  now.  It  made  her 
quite  happy,  and  she  would  say,  "  How 
lovely  Pierre  has  grown.  I  feared  his 
marriage  would  take  him  from  me,  and 
he  is  tenderer  to  me  than  ever  before. 
To  think  of  his*  urging  me  to  paint  a 
picture  for  the  exhibition,  the  dear  boy. 
He  never  used  to  have  any  ambition  for 
me,  and  now,  by  the  way  he  talks  and 
acts,  I  should  think  there  is  nothing  he 
thinks  I  could  not  do." 

None  of  our  little  group  either  men 
tally  or  spiritually  have  stood  still  in  the 
last  four  years. 

Pansy  is  Pansy  still.  She  loves  the 
world,  its  pomp,  and  its  splendor ;  but 
not  with  that  entire  zest  which  early 
poverty  and  privation  are  sure  to  goad 
to  passion  in  such  a  temperament  as 
hers.  Already  it  is  apparent,  the  first 
touch  of  the  palling  of  its  pleasures  which 
soon  or  late  is  sure  to  come  to  the  world's 
devotee,  who  holds  in  her  deeper  soul 
a  longing,  however  latent,  for  better 
things. 

Here's  a  hundred  dollars  for  your 
tiresome  old  "  Help,"  Rene,  she  said  one 
day,  handing  her  sister  the  money. 
"Mamma  gave  it  to  me  for  a  chain  I 
fancied ;  but  come  to  think  it's  not  be 
coming,  and  I  don't  want  it.  Give  it  to 
the  most  dreadful  creature  up  there, 
but  don't  tell  me  about  her.  How  you 
can  sit  by  the  hour  and  listen  to  such 
stories  is  more  than  I  can  fathom.  I 
shall  never  love  anybody  enough  to  listen 
to  their  troubles.  I  am  in  this  world  to 
enjoy  myself  if  I  can,  not  to  listen  to 
anybody's  miseries,  so  be  sure  you  don't 
tell  me.  I  never  shall  get  over  what 
you  have  told  me  for  the  rest  of  my 


« 


A  WOMAN'S  RIGHT. 


207 


natural  life.  There's  Railroad  Jane,  her 
ghastly  face  haunts  me  even  when  I  am 
riding  in  the  Park — and  there's  a  bundle 
upstairs  I  have  made  up  to  send  her 
whenever  you  say." 

The  first,  time  that  Lowell  and  Mary 
Vale  came  to  visit  in  New  York,  Pansy 
spent  a  week  in  making  them  presenta 
ble,  i.  e.,  fashionable. 

'•  It's  no  use,"  she  exclaimed  to  herself 
in  despair  at  last.  "  They  could  not  be 
better  dressed,  yet  any  one  can  see  at  a 
glance  that  with  it  all  they  are  only  plain 
country  folk,  and  no  amount  of  broad 
cloth  and  silk  could  make  them  look 
anything  else.  I  don't  care,  they  don't 
look  vulgar,  and  that's  enough.  They 
shall  ride  on  the  back  seat  through  the 
Park,  and  if  Berta  Von  Beekman  don't 
like  their  looks,  she  can  look  another 
way.  They  are  my  father  and  mother, 
and  that  is  enough." 

This  fact  from  that  moment  was  all 
sufficient  for  Pansy.  She  bore  off  the 
plainness  and  simplicity  of  her  parents, 
as  Nancy  Drake  said,  "  as  if  she  owned 
the  whole  earth. I:  Her  very  sensitive 
ness  lest  some  of  her  friends  might  smile 
at  her  kindred,  and  by  their  manner  re 
mind  her  that  she  was  lowlier  born  than 
themselves,  made  her  instinctively  as 
sume  unnecessary  hauteur.  Her  father 
and  mother  did  not  escape  comment  any 
more  than  the  rest  of  the  human  race. 
The  Von  Beekmans  wondered  how  such 
very  plain  people  could  have  a  daughter 
with  such  an  air,  a  beauty,  and  a  belle, 
nevertheless  in  their  hearts  they  honored 
that  daughter  the  more  for  doing  just  as 
she  did,  and  as  it  was  impossible  to  pat 
ronize  her  they  did  not  even  try  it. 

Pansy  and  Eirene  went  everywhere 
with  their  parents,  who  were  in  a  perfect 
daze  of  delight.  In  Central  Park  Lowell 
Vale  thought  that  he  had  reached 
Paradise,  that  the  Arabian  Nights  were 
made  true  for  him ;  and  Mary  Vale,  who 
had  waited  so  long  for  a  sight  of  the 
Celestial  City,  came  to  the  conclusion  that 
she  had  seen  many  fair  and  wonderful 
sights  before  reaching  it.  Every  summer 
Pansy  went  home  with  Eirene,  and  year 
by  year  the  dormer  cottage  took  on  a 
.  more  gala  look,  and  Farmer  Stave  grew 


more  deeply  troubled,  stumping  his  cane 
the  harder  over  the  unequal  results  of  the 
law  of  compensation.  How  it  could  be 
stow  a  new  horse  and  buggy,  new  furni 
ture,  and  new  fences  "  on  a  critter  that 
hadn't  a  mite  of  kalkerlation,  while  it 
left  to  be  contented  with  old  traps  a  man 
that  had  been  kalkerlatin'  all  his  life," 
was  more  than  he  could  understand,  and 
was  something  to  which  he  had  not  the 
slightest  idea  of  being  reconciled. 

To-day  Pansy  took  her  little  nephew 
with  his  nurse  to  her  room  to  amuse  her 
while  she  dressed  for  the  drive  an  hour 
or  two  later.  Cornelia  and  Eirene  were 
left  to  one  of  their  "  talks,"  of  which 
they  never  seemed  to  tire,  but  which 
Pansy  pronounced  "perfectly  tiresome." 

"  There  !  "  she  said  before  she  started, 
"you  two  are  going  to  discuss  the  my 
steries  of  the  universe  again.  Why  don't 
you  leave  the  universe  to  take  care  of 
itself,  and  spend  the  time  that  you  devote 
to  it  in  the  shops  ?  There  would  be  some 
variety  in  that.  T  declare,  Eirene,  I 
think  your  life  is  perfectly  prosy  and 
poky, — housekeeping,  your  old  woman's 
Help,  books,  baby,  husband, — and  you 
are  so  awfully  in  love  with  Pierre.  I  be 
lieve  you  begrudge  every  moment  that 
you  give  to  your  evening  visitors." 

*'  Oh  no,"  I  don't,  said  Eirene ;  "  I  must 
own  Pierre's"  society  is  so  perfectly  de 
lightful  to  me,  that  if  I  had  it  three 
hundred  and  sixty-five  evenings  of  the 
year  all  to  myself)  it  would  be  just  as 
fresh  and  charming  to  me  the  last  evening 
as  the  first ;  but  that  would  be  too  sel 
fish.  ' 

"  You  must  own,  Pansy,  that  the  old 
house  sees  some  very  bright  evenings, 
especially  when  you  and  your  friends 
come  to  play  and  dance." 

"  0. 1  don't  find  fault  with  your  even 
ings,  'tis  your  days;  but  they  are  no  con 
cern  of  ours,  are  they,  baby  ?  ".  And  with 
these  words  she  seized  her  little  nephew 
and  departed. 

"  Your  days  are  my  envy,"  said  Cor 
nelia,  "  always  doing,  yet  never  worried 
or  hurried ;  how  do  you  manage  it, 
Rene  ?  " 

"0,  I  am  nothing  at  managing,  only 
I  have  so  much  more  to  do  than  I  can 


208 


EIRENE: 


possibly  accomplish  ;  it  is  only  by  being 
regular  and  constant  that  I  can  do  any 
thing  at  all !  But  you,  doar  Corna,  have 
so  many  gifts,  I  often  think  if  they  had 
only  satisfactory  occupation  that  you 
would  be  happier ! " 

"  Very  likely  ;  yet  do  you  know  I 
doubt  if  any  mere  occupation  of  the  fac 
ulties  can  satisfy  anybody  who  has  a 
soul.  You  know  Life  is  many-stranded, 
one  may  fill  in  a  long  way,  yet  all  the 
same  there  is  the  empty  space  below, 
warp  without  woof." 

"Yes,  but  the  occupation  fills  our  time 
and  our  thoughts,  and  that  is  filling  so 
much  of  life.  Don't  you  think  it  helps 
to  make  one  happy  to  be  very  busy  ?  " 

"  I'm  sure  I  can't  stfy,  Rene,  I  was 
never  very  busy  in  all  my  life." 

"  What  a  story,  Corna,  your  heart  and 
your  thoughts  are  constantly  busy.  That 
is  part  of  what  I  mean.  Every  day  you 
give  me  some  idea  or  suggestion  which 
1  remember.  I  carry  it  away — often  it 
assists  me  more  than  I  can  tell  you,  and 
I  can't  help  thinking  that  it  might  com 
fort  and  give  pleasure  to  many  others. 
Why  don't  you  write  them  down  and 
publish  them  ?  Wouldn't  it  make  you 
happy  to  know  that  you  were  helping 
other  people  to  be  so  ?  " 

"Utility!  Utility  1  I  should  know 
you  were  born  in  New  England.  And 
you  would  set  me  to  writing  for  the 
newspapers,  with  every  other  woman  in 
the  land  doing  the  same  already.  No,  I 
thank  you,  the  writing  devil  has  not 
caught  me  at  least,  though  the  demon  of 
discontent  has.'" 

"  You  may  be  sure  that  I  have  never 
thought  of  your  writing  as  a  source  of 
fame,"  said  Eirene.  "It  seems  to  me  no 
person  of  common  sense  could  do  that  in 
this  day  when  so  many  people  write 
well,  and  so  few  superlatively.  But  it 
must  be  a  pleasant  way  to  do  one's  little 
share  in  the  world  to  those  who  can — 
this  breaking  forth  with  a  good  word 
and  a  God  speed.  YOU  send  your  little 
message  out,  and  the  one  who  waits  for  it 
receives  it,  while  you  behind  your  door 
can  be  as  sheltered  and  shut  away  as  if 
you  had  never  spoken  a  word.  How 
proud  I'd  be  of  you  !  " 


"  0  Rene,  if  any  one  could  tempt 
me  to  go  and  make  a  goose  of  myselb'  it 
would  be  you.  But  you  overrate  me ;  I 
have  not  the  power  of  embodying  ideas 
which  you  think  I  have,  and  if  I  had  I 
would  not  write,  dear.  I  should  only 
add  another  voice  to  the  thousands  echo 
ing  the  prevailing  spirit  of  the  age.  I 
am  not  willing  to  do  that.  No,  I  would 
rather  be  dumb  forever." 

"  There  are  so  many  opinions  of  the 
prevailing  spirit  of  the  age,  many  call  it 
progress,  so  many  infidelity.  What  do 
you  call  it,  Corna?" 

"  I  call  it  a  compound  of  unbelief,  dis 
content,  unrest,  ambition,  and  aspiration. 
I  find  it  all  reflected  in  myself,  but  I  will 
not  give  public  voice  to  it." 

"  I  am  sorry  that  you  are  troubled." 

"  Of  course  you  are,  but  that  can't 
help  me.  You  said  true,  so  many  peo 
ple  write  well,  so  well  that  I  find  my 
self  astonished  over  it  every  day.  I  can't 
take  up  the  commonest  book  or  news 
paper  without  finding  some  subtle  or  new 
idea  in  it,  or  some  old  one  presented  in 
entirely  new  relations.  This  seems  to 
me  pre-eminently  an  age  of  thought,  but 
it  is  thought  without  unity.  Everybody 
is  proclaiming  his  ipso  dixit  upon  his 
own  authority.  Each  one  seems  to  be 
afraid  that  he  wont  have  all  the  chance 
he  wants  to  declare  his  own  individuality, 
no  matter  how  awry  it  may  be.  Indi 
viduality  is  one  of  the  cant  words  of  this 
country  at  least.  For  my  part,  I  would 
like  to  lose  a  little  of  mine.  There  is 
nothing  but  doubting,  questioning,  de 
nying,  and  aspiring  -so  little  realization 
— that  lies  far  on,  Rene,  in  a  golden  age 
that  you  and  I  will  never  see.  Mind,  I 
don't  say  that  all  this  upturning  is  not 
necessary  for  the  far  fulfilment,  but  I'm 
dreadfully  tired  of  it  all.  This  spirit  of 
the  age,  as  people  call  it,  makes  fearful 
discord  in  my  temperament,  which  is  as 
slow  as  an  old  Dutch  canal." 

"  But  it  is  well  with  you,  carissima," 
she  added,  leaning  forward  and  kissing 
tenderly  the  sunbeam  which  changed  to 
gold  her  sister's  hair.  "  It  is  well  with 
you,  and  you  rest  me  more  than  any 
mortal  that  I  ever  knew.  You  are  never 
restless  or  anxious,  and  yet  it  is  not 


A  WOMAN'S  EIGHT. 


209 


because  you  have  not  felt  all  that  a 
human  heart  can  feel.  There  must  have 
been  a  time,  Rene,  when  you  ceased  to 
anticipate  anything  for  yourself  in  this 
world,  then  you  ceased  to  be  restless  or 
anxious.  Fruition  came  to  you  unawares, 
and  now  you  are  filled  with  a  heavenly 
content.  All  that  you  have  ever  suf 
fered  has  deepened  and  enriched  your 
nature,  and  made  greater  your  wonderful 
capacity  for  giving." 

"  0  Corna,  why  will  you  say  such 
things  to  me  ?  " 

"Because  it's  true,  my  dear,  and  I'm 
not  of  the  sort  who  believe  that  we  are 
to  tell  no  truths  to  our  friends  but  dis 
agreeable  ones.  I  believe  more  people 
are  harmed  by  fault-finding  than  by 
praise  in  this  world  of  ours." 

"  I  like  it,  I  can't  deny  that,  Corna, 
only  it  makes  me  feel  ashamed." 

"  I'd  like  a  chance  to  feel  ashamed  in 
the  same  direction,  but  I've  the  horridest 
set  of  duty-doing  friends  who  always  feel 
that  they  ought  to  tell  me  every  hateful 
thing  that  they  can  think  or  even  hear 
of  me.  It  has  hurt  me  so  much  that  I 
say  every  pleasant  thing  I  can  think  of 
to  every  one  I  care  for.  Nobody  com 
forts  me  like  you,  Rene." 

"  If  I  could  only  see  you  happy.  You 
have  so  much  to  make  you  happy,  if  you 
only  have  a  little  more  faith." 

"Aye!  If  I  could,  but  I  can't,  that  is 
what  is  the  matter  with  me.  I'll  confess 
the  truth  to  you,  carina.  (I  never  did 
to  any  one  before.)  All  that  my  heart 
has  really  craved  on  earth  I  hav'e 
'  missed  or  itself  missed  me,'  as  Robert 
Browning  says.  Now,  what  I  really 
want  most  in  this  world  is  to  believe.  I 
often  wish  that  I  had  lived  in  the  old 
mediaeval  times  when  people  took  every 
thing  for  granted.  But  I  don't.  I 
question  every  thing.  A  blade  of  grass 
baffles  me.  I  cannot  look  upon  the  sky 
or  upon  the  earth,  or  feel  the  beating  of 
my  own  heart,  without  being  conscious 
of  the  mystery  of  life.  I  find  no  satis 
factory  solution  anywhere.  And  yet 
I  feel  sure  that  only  the  fruition  of 
another  and  perfect  life  can  explain 
the  incompleteness  and  disappointments 
of  this  one.  I  am  always  peering  into 
14 


the  dark  beyond,  yet  I  never  see  my 
way." 

"  Have  you  never  thought  of  one 
thing,  Corna;  the  most  famous  men  and 
women,  no  matter  how  much  they  have 
doubted,  no  matter  how  completely  they 
have  lived  for  this  world,  when  they  draw 
near  death,  then  they  think  most  of  their 
souls,  and  turn  to  the  very  Bible  that 
they  have  neglected  or  despised  for  con 
solation?  Long  ago  this  fact  impress 
ed  me  so  deeply,  that  I  resolved  not 
to  wait  till  I  had  passed  by  the  best 
of  this  life's  joy,  to  live  for  the 
coming  life,  which  must  be  a  con 
tinuation  of  this.  If  we  think  at  all,  I 
suppose  we  must  all  question  many 
things,  there  is  so  much  that  we  cannot 
understand.  But  there  is  a  comfort  in 
believing  in  G-od's  love,  in  resting  in  it, 
in  living  for  it,  which  is  beyond  every 
thing." 

"  Yes,  I  suppose  there  is  for  those  who 
can,  but  it  don't  rest  me  much.  Even  the 
Bible  is  a  fearfully  contradictory  and  un 
satisfactory  book  to  me." 

"The  grand,  the  blessed  old  Bible. 
At  least  its  promises  are  not  contradic 
tory.  How  many  go  to  them  for  con 
solation  when  every  thing  else  on  earth 
fails." 

"  Yes,  I  go  to  them  myself,  and  if  I 
could  only  make  them  real — if  I  could 
make  the  future  life  as  real  to  me  as  this 
one  is — if  I  could  only  feel  that  it  holds 
a  compensation  for  all  that  fails  me  here, 
that  would  be  enough.  I  never  should 
utter  another  murmur.  No  matter  what 
happened  I  could  wait  content.  But  I 
can't ;  it's  all  vague  and  myth-like.  I 
moan  for  what  I  have  missed  and  lost  as 
if  they  were  all.  Yet  I  know  they 
can't  be  all,  not  all,  else  why  should  I 
long  for  something  higher  and  more  per 
fect  than  I  have  ever  found,  or  ever  can 
find  in  this  world." 

"No,  not  all.  With  your  glorious 
faculties  how  could  it  be  all,  the  dwarfed 
life  that  they  have  here;  and  yet  I 
believe  in  this  life,  in  this  age.  Dear 
sister,  how  I  wish  you  could  feel  their 
possibilities  and  privileges  as  I  do." 

"  I  wish  I  could ;  and  yet,  Rene,  you 
must  have  seen  moments  in  your  own 


210 


EIRENE  : 


life  when  you  did  not  feel  it  to  be  such 
a  privilege  to  live  this  life." 

A  swift  shadow  passed  over  Eirene's 
face. 

"  You  are  right,"  she  said.  "  I  have 
seen  moments  when  I  was  willing  even 
to  fling  it  away.  How  wicked  I  was. 
Yet  I  should  be  more  wicked  now  if  I 
did  not  thank  God  for  letting  me  live  on 
this  beautiful  earth  in  a  life  so  complete. 
As  Pierre  says :  '  Life  is  a  big  thing.'  " 

"  It  strikes  me  that  death  is  a  bigger 
one.  What  you  said  of  everybody  being 
anxious  about  their  souls  at  last,  makes 
me  think  of  the  last  night  of  the  Giron 
dists.  You  remember  how  they  sat 
around  a  table  full  of  wine  and  flowers 
and  discussed  the  immortality  of  the 
soul  till  day  dawned  ?  Then  Ducos  said : 
'  Let  us  sleep,  life  is  so  trifling  a  thing  it 
is  not  worth  the  hour  of  sleep  which  we 
lose  in  regretting  it.'  '  Let  us  watch,' 
said  Lasource.  'Eternity  is  so  certain, 
and  so  terrible  that  a  thousand  lives 
would  not  suffice  to  prepare  for  it' 
I  often  feel  like  that,  yet  who  would  be 
lieve  it  that  knows  me  only  by  the  but 
terfly  life  that  I  live  ?" 

"  No,  who  could  believe  it  of  those 
who  know  you  only  in  -your  worldly 
guise,"  said  Eirene  to  herself  half  an 
hour  later  as  she  saw  the  beautiful  wo 
man  enter  the  carriage  for  her  afternoon 
drive.  The  gorgeous  cavalcade  had 
already  started  parkward.  Many  were 
the  hats  lifted  and  the  heads  bowed  to 
the  beautiful  girl,  and  no  less  beautiful 
woman,  as  their  elegant  equipage  moved 
slowly  on.  Not  one  of  all  those  wor 
shippers  probably  thought  that  this 
queen  of  fashion  and  beauty  had  a  desire 
beyond  the  homage  which  she  received 
as  her  birthright.  That  moment  she  had 
not  She  liked  it,  and  it  was  her  life  to 
take  it,  but  it  was  the  life  which  had 
come  between  her  and  the  higher  life 
which  she  longed  for  in  solitary  moments, 
but  which  yet  she  had  never  won. 

Eirene  went  home  with  her  boy. 
Later  he  slept  by  her  side  in  her  own 
room  through  her  own  hour,  to  her  one 
of  the  dearest  of  the  day,  when  she 
shut  all  the  world  out,  and  herself  in 
with  her  child,  her  books,  and  her  own 


soul.  No  soul  can  grow  that  is  never 
nourished  in  solitude.  It  is  in  silence 
that  its  deepest  springs  are  fed  from  the 
secret  sources  of  life.  Like  other  Amer 
ican  households  Eirene's  was  not  always 
free  from  invasion  even  in  its  most  sa 
cred  moments.  The  demands  of  others 
sometimes  took  from  her  the  hour  which 
she  had  set  apart  for  her  own  improve 
ment,  but  she  always  came  back  to  it 
again,  and  perhaps  another  day  gave  her 
two ;  thus  unobtrusively  and  almost 
unknown,  save  to  her  husband,  even  her 
scholastic  education  went  on.  Now  she 
looked  from  her  book  to  her  boy.  The 
morning  conversation  had  centred  her 
thoughts  even  more  than  usual  upon 
him.  "  Yes,"  she  said,  gazing  on  the 
slumbering  child.  "  In  one  sense  your 
mother  must  be  your  teacher  and  friend 
always.  The  mother  of  a  man  cannot 
afford  to  rust  or  to  go  back.  The  time 
will  come  when  you  will  leave  me. 
Alas !  I  would  not  have  it  otherwise. 
You  must  be  a  man,  a  free  man,  to  do  a 
man's  work  in  the  world.  If  you  can 
come  back  to  me,  if  you  can  love  me  and 
honor  me  always,  my  boy,  it  will  be 
enough."  She  was  looking  upon  her  child 
when  a  servant  came  in  and  handed  her 
a  card,  while  she  said,  "  I  told  the  gen 
tleman  that  you  were  always  engaged 
this  hour,  but  he  said  he  could  not  come 
again."  Eirene  took  the  card  and  read : 

PAUL  MALLANE, 
BOSTON. 

"  She  read  the  name  as  she  might  one 
dropped  to  her  from  another  life,  or 
another  world.  It  seemed  such  to  her, 
so  far  was  she  removed  in  circumstance 
and  association  even  from  its  memory. 
She  gazed  at  it  till  a  crimsom  tide  swept 
over  her  fair  face  at  the  recollections 
which  it  brought  back. 

"Bettine,  tell  the  gentleman  that  I 
will  see  him,"  she  said  quietly,  and  the 
happy-faced  German  girl  departed  with 
her  message. 

Below  waited  a  gentleman  who  bore 
slight  resemblance  to  our  early  acquaint 
ance.  He  had  changed  greatly,  yet  we 
should  know  him  by  his  eyes,which  alone 
retained  the  beauty  of  his  youth.  If  I 


A  WOMAN'S  RIGHT. 


211 


obeyed  the  stereotyped  law  of  novels,  I 
should  portray  him  in  a  very  sorry  con 
dition,  but  as  I  began  this  book  not  "  to 
tell  a  story,"  but  to  tell  the  truth,  the 
truth  compels  me  to  say  that  he  looked 
precisely  what  he  was,  a  "  high  liver,''  a 
fashionably  dressed  prosperous  man  of 
the  world.  One  can  see  hundreds  of 
men  of  precisely  the  same  type  in  a 
single  walk  down  Broadway,  or  on  any 
other  grand  thoroughfare  in  any  city  of 
the  world.  You  catch  glimpses  of  them 
at  the  open  windows  of  fashionable  club 
houses,  lounging  in  groups  about  the 
doors  of  grand  hotels,  rolling  in  ease 
through  parks,  driving  four  or  six  in 
hand  along  the  corsos  of  fashionable 
watering  places,  everywhere  that  money, 
luxury,  and  self-indulgence  meet;  men 
whose  material  life  has  triumphed  over 
the  intellectual  and  the  spiritual,  and 
made  them  its  slave. 

He  was  handsome  still,  but  his  good 
looks  were  suggestive  chiefly  of  turbot 
and  capons,  of  strong  liquors  and  fast 
living.  Seeing  him  anywhere  you  would 
say:  "There  is  a  rich  man,  prosperous 
as  the  world  goes,  but  neither  satisfied 
nor  happy."  He  had  the  nervous  move 
ment,  the  abrupt  manner,  the  restless 
glance  which  indicate  a  dissatisfied  mind, 
and  which  combined  form  a  presence 
peculiarly  American.  America  produces 
thousands  of  such  men.  In  their  youth 
their  mothers  and  their  native  towns 
believe  that  they  can  attain  to  almost 
any  greatness  possible  to  man.  But  they 
reach  the  acme  of  their  power  in  early 
manhood,  and  in  maturity  never  fulfill  the 
promise  of  their  youth.  There  were 
none  of  the  probabilities  of  Paul  being 
President  of  the  United  States  now,  that 
there  were  when  Deacon  Nugget  prophe 
sied  that  dubious  honor  for  him  in  his 
old  shop  door,  when  Prince  Mallane  was 
the  pride  of  Busyville.  Yet,  as  the 
world  goes,  Paul  was  a  prosperous  man. 
He  had  only  missed  the  highest  success 
in  his  profession  in  himself.  When  he 
allowed  himself  to  think  of  it,  no  one 
knew  this  better  than  he.  It  comes  to 
all  men,  certainly  to  him  whose  higher 
nature  is  but  partially  obliterated — 
glimpses  of  the  best  and  highest  life 


to  which  humanity  may  attain.  But  it 
takes  more  than  mere  ability  to  win 
it,  to  ensure  even  temporal  success.  It 
requires  a  motive  and  an  object,  whatever 
they  may  be,  powerful  enough  to  com 
mand  every  force.  These  Paul  Mallane 
never  had.  Without  them  he  had  the 
impulse,  but  not  the  steadfast  purpose 
which  conquers  success  and  commands 
even  fame.  Thus  as  a  lawyer  he  achieved 
his  most  brilliant  position  as  a  young 
man,  when  he  believed  that  he  was  going 
to  earn  his  own  fortune,  and  make  a  home 
and  a  name  for  the  woman  of  his  love. 
The  grandest  men  who  have  won  re 
nown  have  esteemed  this  joy  and  tri 
umph  enough.  Lord  Jeffrey  writes  at  the 
death  of  his  young  wife:  "I  took  no 
interest  in  anything  which  had  not  some 
reference  to  her.  You  know  how  indo 
lent  I  was  by  nature,  how  regardless  of 
reputation  and  fortune.  But  it  was  a 
delight  to  me  to  lay  these  things  at  the 
feet  of  my  darling,  and  to  invest  her  with 
some  portion  of  the  distinction  she 
deserved.  Now  I  have  no  interest  in 
any  thing,  and  no  object  or  motive  for 
being  in  the  world." 

What  purer  human  motive  can  inspire 
a  man  than  the  faith  and  devotion  of  the 
wife  who  holds  him  next  to  God  !  All 
that  was  best  in  Paul  Mallane  went  out  to 
Eirene ;  had  there  been  enough  of  it  to 
have  preserved  her  in  his  life,  his  whole 
fate  had  been  different.  As  it  was,  he 
had  been  gnawed  by  the  daily  canker 
which  has  eaten  away  so  many  men's 
lives  in  secret — an  unhappy  home.  No 
children  were  born  to  bind  the  discord 
ant  pair  together  in  one  common  hope. 
He  settled  down  to  a  lucrative  but  me 
diocre  law  business,  carried  on  chiefly  by 
assistants,  while  he  reaped  the  profits. 
He  gained  at  least  one  of  the  supreme 
objects  of  his  desire — money !  He  spent 
it  at  clubs,  races,  in  feasting  and  drink 
ing.  He  lived  in  a  great  mansion — in 
one  half  of  it — while  his  wife  opened  the 
other  half  to  her  clubs,  her  societies,  her 
re-unions,  and  reigned  there  in  undis 
puted  possession  of  her  "  rights  "  !  Paul 
was  what  society  terms  a  "  hard  drink 
er,"  not  a  drunkard — that  is,  he  was 
rarely  or  never  intoxicated,  and  just  as 


212 


EIRENE : 


rarely  free  from  the  stimulus  of  liquor. 
Without  it  nothing  could  have  tempted 
him  to  appear  in  this  house ;  but  he  had 
seen  something  that  goaded  him  that 
morning — had  drank  a  double  potion, 
which  made  him  feel  equal  to  anything, 
and  here  he  was. 

You  remember  his  early  weakness  for 
grand  old  rooms  ?  He  had  not  lost  it ;  and 
as  he  looked  down  the  great  drawing- 
room  of  De  Peyster  house,  such  a  contrast 
to  the  narrow  vault  of  the  modern  New 
York  parlor,  as  he  glanced  at  its  antique 
furniture,  at  its  sacred  souvenirs  of 
the  past,  at  its  exquisite  forms  of  art, 
the  well-remembered  glories  of  Marlboro 
Hill  faded  in  comparison. 

"  Compensation,"  he  exclaimed,  with 
a  half  bitter  smile.  "  I  am  glad  of  it." 

In  the  library  beyond  he  caught  a 
glimpse  of  a  painting  which  seemed  to 
draw  him  irresistibly.  He  yielded  to 
the  impulse  and  stood  before  it.  It  was 
a  recent  picture  of  Eirene  and  her  boy, 
which  Pierre  had  had  painted — a  master 
piece  by  an  American  master.  His 
finest  art  and  inspiration  were  infused 
into  it,  and  the  subject,  if  only  as  a  rare 
type  of  womanhood,  motherhood,  and 
childhood,  were  worthy  of  the  genius 
of  the  master.  Life-size,  there  she  sat 
with  her  boy,  all  surrounded  by  the 
grand  old  De  Peysters,  this  guardian  an 
gel  of  the  later  destinies  of  their  house. 
The  vision  struck  all  the  fever  out  of 
Paul  Mallane's  veins,  all  the  illusion  out 
of  his  brain.  He  was  sober  in  an  instant, 
with  the  soberness  of  absolute  realiza 
tion. 

"  My  God ! "  he  exclaimed,  "  how 
like!  I  should  have  known  it  in  Tim- 
bnctoo.  Yet  how  changed.  What  am 
I  here  for — an  ass  after  so  many  years !  " 

Suddenly  the  man  became  a  coward. 
He  could  not  meet  her.  What  could  he 
say  to  her  ?  How  could  he  behold  her 
eyes  ?  After  all,  he  would  go  away 
without  seeing  her,  and  he  turned  to 
wards  the  door.  As  he  did  so,  he  saw 
her  coming  toward  him  out  of  the  depth 
of  the  great  drawing-room — not  the 
Eirene  that  he  saw  last,  the  wan  and 
faded  half-dead  girl  whom  his  duplicity 
had  made  but  a  lustrous  woman  with 


shining  hair,  and  eyes  lit  with  a  soft 
splendor,  and  a  gliding  motion  as  if  she 
were  not  walking,  but  borne  on  to  him 
by  the  white  draperies  which  floated 
around  her  ;  the  face  and  the  form  of  her 
who  had  made  heaven  seem  possible  to 
him  on  earth  in  the  days  of  his  youth — 
that  denied  and  defrauded  youth  lying  so 
far  back  in  his  past. 

It  was  the  man  who  was  moved  to 
emotion,  and  who  showed  it,  not  the 
woman.  There  was  no  triumph,  no  re 
gret,  no  pain  in  her  aspect,  as  she  ap 
proached;  there  was  nothing  but  the 
outraying  peace  of  her  own  being,  and 
the  unconscious  kindness  which  was  the 
impulse  and  law  of  her  life.  She  came 
forward  with  the  gentleness  of  a  gentle 
woman  to  receive  one  who  had  asked  to 
see  her  in  her  own  home,  as  she  might 
have  come  had  she  never  seen  him  be 
fore.  Since  she  shut  her  eyes  upon  him 
— so  far  away  in  another  existence — the 
realization  of  a  perfect  life  had  come  to 
her  in  the  place  of  that  early  dream.  A 
man  whom  she  revered  and  loved  with 
a  reverence  and  a  devotion  which  Paul 
Mallane  could  never  have  inspired,  had 
superseded  him  in  her  affections.  It 
was  different  with  him.  In  his  heart  no 
one  had  ever  taken  her  place.  No  evil 
in  his  life  had  ever  touched  the  shrine 
whereon  he  had  placed  her,  and  where 
in  thought  he  worshipped  her  alone. 

He  had  lived  his  man's  life  according 
to  his  nature.  He  had  run  the  whole 
gamut  of  a  fast  man's  pleasures,  but  as 
one  by  one  each  palled  upon  him  and 
left  him  more  dissatisfied  than  before, 
more  and  more  distinctly  came  back  to 
him  the  angel  of  his  youth,  and  more 
and  more  bitter  grew  his  regret  for 
all  that  he  had  lost  in  losing  her. 
There  was  always  just  good  enough  in 
Paul  Mallane  to  make  you  like  him,  and 
to  make  it  seem  that  there  must  be  a 
great  deal  more.  You  may  say  that 
Fate  was  cruel  to  him,  that  Eirene  could 
have  saved  him  ?  No.  She  could  never 
have  changed  his  nature,  and  yet  all 
that  was  good  in  it  was  hers. 

She  came  out  of  the  depth  of  the  great 
drawing-room  as  in  fancy  he  had  seen 
her  come  so  many  times  out  of  the 


A  WOMAN'S  EIGHT. 


213 


silence  of  the  past,  lovelier  than  ever  be 
fore  I  Forever  inaccessible  to  him,  never 
had  she  seemed  so  dear  to  him  as  at  this 
moment. 

"  I  have  been  looking  at  your  pic 
ture,"  he  said  in  a  hurried  tone,  before 
she  had  time  to  speak.  "  You  have 
changed  as  well  as  I,  but  not  as  I  have. 
Mrs.  De  Peyster,  pardon  me  for  coming 
here  uninvited.  I  realized  the  extent  of 
my  intrusion  a  moment  ago,  while  gazing 
on  this  portrait  and  its  surroundings,  and 
was  going  away  without  seeing  you." 

"  I  am  glad  to  see  you,  Paul,"  she 
said,  simply.  "  Will  you  come  into  the 
library  ? "  And  she  led  the  way  into 
the  room  which  he  had  just  left.  She 
had  not  had  the  faintest  idea  of  what  she 
would  say.  nor  how  she  would  greet  him 
a  moment  before.  Now  as  she  looked 
upon  him  it  was  not  triumph,  nor  bitter 
ness,  nor  love  that  she  felt ;  it  was  com 
passion.  For  it  was  not  his  fine  clothes, 
nor  his  prosperous  (and  under  ordinary 
conditions  his  still  important)  air  which 
she  saw  •  it  was  the  face,  the  face  once 
so  beautiful  and  dear  to  her,  now  so 
clouded,  heavy,  and  dark  with  the  traces 
left  on  it  by  long  sinful  years.  Her  sub 
tle  spiritual  sight  looked  through  this 
face  as  the  thinnest  mask,  and  read  the 
stormy,  unsatisfied,  unhappy  heart  below 
it  as  an  open  book,  and  she  out  of  the 
depth  of  her  perfect  happiness  pitied  the 
man  whom  she  had  once  loved,  even 
while  she  could  wonder  now  how  she 
had  ever  loved  him.  And  he  who  would 
scorn  pity  from  any  other  mortal  could 
receive  it  from  her  as  a  priceless  boon. 

"  Then  you  don't  hate  me  ?  "  he  asked, 
gazing  upon  the  gentle  face  before  him. 

"  I  never  hated  you,  Paul,  I  only  lost 
you." 

"  Lost  me  !  You  never  lost  me.  It 
is  I  who  lost  you,"  he  said  bitterly. 

She  meant  "  I  lost  you  when  I  lost 
my  faith  in  you;  when  you  deceived  me 
and  made  me  the  victim  of  subterfuge 
and  falsehood."  She  saw  that  he  did 
not  understand  her  meaning,  and  in 
mercy  to  him  she  did  not  explain  it. 

"  You  have  been  avenged,  ten  times, 
avenged,  Eirene,  for  all  I  ever  made  you 
suffer,"  he  said.  "  To  tell  you  so  is  all 


that  I  have  come  here  for.  I  am  willing 
that  you  should  triumph  over  me,  and 
you  are  the  only  one  on  earth  I  am  will 
ing  should.  I  even  like  to  punish  my 
self  by  coming  to  look  upon  your  happi 
ness.  It's  a  comfort  to  see  that  you  are 
avenged,  even  in  the  face  of  my  own 
misery.  That  if  I've  spoiled  my  own 
life,  that  I  could  not  yours.  Just  two 
things  I  am  sure  of  in  this  world — retri 
bution  and  compensation.  You  have 
your  compensation,  I  see,"  he  said, 
glancing  from  the  portrait  to  herself,  and 
from  herself  back  to  a  magnificent  por 
trait  of  Pierre  De  Peyster,  "  and  I,  my 
retribution.  I've  been  ten  times  punish 
ed  for  every  sin  I  ever  committed.  I 
am  as  miserable  as  you  could  ever  pos 
sibly  want  me  to  be,  and  I  am  willing 
that  you  should  know  it." 

"  I  never  wanted  you  miserable  at 
all,"  she  said,  and  as  he  heard  her  fone 
he  believed  her.  "I  have  never  even 
thought  that  you  deliberately  caused  me 
unhappiness :  that  grew  out  of  many 
circumstances  and  conditions." 

"It  grew  out  of  my  cursed  nature  and 
ideas,"  he  exclaimed.  "But  bless  you 
for  what  you  have  said.  It's  something. 
Have  you  ever  seen  my  wife  ?" 

She  looked  up  in  astonishment  at  this 
question. 

"  Oh,  I  see  you  haven't.  But  I  won 
der  that  you  look  surprised.  She  can 
be  seen  by  any  stranger  who  wants  to 
look  upon  her,  or  listen  to  her  lecture  on 
'  Woman's  Rights.' " 

"I  never  knew  her  name  till — this 
morning.  I  thought  it  might  be  she 
whose  name  I  saw  advertised  to  lecture." 

"And  you  saw  it !  I  knew  that  you 
would.  1  saw  it,  and  it  made  me  so — so 
mad — that  the  result  is  I  am  here !  That 
is  one  of  her  lovely  tricks.  Wherever 
sheknows  I  am — if  I  go  off  with  a  party 
of  friends,  if  I  am  anywhere,  where  she 
is  sure  that  the  sight  will  be  particularly 
unpleasant,  there  she  alights.  And  in 
the  first  newspaper  that  1  pick  up  I  see 
my  wife's  name,  with  my  own  appended 
to  it.  She  announced  to  lecture  on  '  THE 
HUSBAND  OF  THE  PERIOD.'  Isn't  it  a 
precious  morsel  for  my  cronies?  She 
knows  it.  She  knows  nothing  could 


214 


EIRENE : 


gall  me  more.  If  she  would  only  stick 
to  the  truth  in  her — lecture,  it  would  be 
a  little  less  maddening." 

"  You  don't  mean  that  she  can  tell 
truth  or  untruth  about  her  own  husband 
to  a  public  audience,  do  you  ?"  asked 
Eirene,  striving  to  take  in  the  monstrous 
idea. 

"  I  mean  that  she  does,   d n   her. 

Pardon  me ! — I  humbly  ask  your  pardon. 
You  will  think  I  deserve  it,  but  I  don't, 
not  that  lecture.  In  it  she  goes  on  and 
portrays  an  ideal  wife,'  a  lovely,  neg 
lected,  suffering  woman,  makes  her  an 
angel,  a  creature  full  of  seraphic  gifts  and 
graces,  all  of  which  are  sacrificed  to  a 
brute  of  a  man.  She  tells  a  touching 
tale  of  how  this  brute  robbed  this  angel 
of  every  chance  to  use  her  talents — '  re 
pressed  Jier,'  '  robbed  her  of  her  indi 
viduality,'  those  are  the  pet  phrases — 
while  the  de.vil  has  gone  on  making 
whatever  he  chooses  out  of  himself,  with 
nothing  on  earth  to  hinder,  squander 
ing  his  own  and  his  wife's  fortune,  and 
that  now  she  supports  not  only  herself, 
but  him !  The  inference  of  all  this  is 
that  she  herself  is  the  seraph,  and  I  the 
demon.  I'd  forgive  her  everything  else 
if  she  did  not  go  about  hinting  that  she 
supports  me ! " 

There  was  something  comical  even  in 
the  distress  of  the  tone  in  which  the  last 
sentence  was  uttered ;  it  made  Eirene 
smile. 

"  If  you  were  a  man,  you  could  not 
smile  at  that,"  he  said  reproachfully. 

"But  even  if  it  were  true,"  Eirene 
said,  "you  would  have  considerable  com 
pany.  I  am  told  that  many  women  do 
support  men  in  this  land  and  generation," 
and  her  thoughts  went  up  to  the  "  Help," 
and  to  the  pitiful  stories  that  she  heard 
there. 

"ZJothey!"  said  Paul.  "Then  Mrs. 
Mallane  is  not  one  of  them.  I  support 
myself  and  her  too — not  that  it  is  a  very 
gracious  task.  I  wouldn't  if  I  could  help 
it.  She  is  rich.  If  she  had  not  been — 
well,  she  is  rich ;  but  her  father  took 
care  before  we  were  married  to  secure 
it  all  to  her,  so  I  couldn't  touch  a  penny 
of  it.  I  don't  want  to  touch  a  penny 
of  it;  but  as  things  go,  I  wouldn't  sup- 


.  port  her  if  the  law  didn't  compel  me. 
So  much  for  men's  rights  !  If  you  could 
look  into  that  great  desolate  house  (it's 
hers),  and  see  the  man  and  woman  who 
inhabit  each  the  remotest  corners  of  it, 
then  if  you  could  hear  that  house  called 
a  home,  you  would  realize  how  you  are 
avenged." 

"I  pity  you  both,"  she  said  earnestly. 

"Her  too?  Well,  you  may.  I  pity 
her  myself  sometimes.  And  you  never 
heard  of  her?" 

"  No,  not  until  this  morning." 

"  Yet  I  knew  her,  and  she  cared  for 
me  before  I  ever  saw  you." 

"  Didn't  you  care  for  her  ?" 

"  Yes,  in  a  way ;  I  did  not  love  her — 
I  see  you  smile ;  I  suppose  you  think 
that  remark  sounds  like  old  times." 

"Well,  I  didn't— I  never  did  I  I've 
got  through  with  all  those  early  lies.  I 
can  afford  to  speak  the  truth  now.  I  al 
ways  did  speak  the  truth  to  you.  I  de 
clare  again  that  I  never  loved  but  one 
woman,  and  that  woman  is  you.  I  ad 
mired  Helena — very  much  then,  which 
is  a  good  deal  more  than  I  do  now." 

"  How  could  you  wish  to  marry  her  if 
you  did  not  love  her ;  that  was  doing  her 
a  wrong  in  the  beginning,  if  you  made 
her  believe  that  you  did,"  said  Eirene. 

"  Not  changed  after  all !  I  see  you 
don't  understand  now,  any  more  than 
fourteen  years  ago,  that  a  man  may  act 
from  more  than  one  motive  even  in 
marriage.  Several  entered  into  mine 
with  Helena — one  you  can  commend.  I 
felt  that  my  attentions  had  been  suffi 
cient  to  cause  her  unhappiness,  that  I 
had  helped  her  to  love  me.  I  could  make 
no  other  amends." 

Here  he  struck  beyond  the  limit  of 
her  pity,  beyond  even  the  large  white 
margin  of  her  charity.  A  look  of  icy 
coldness,  touched  with  contempt,  stole 
outward  through  the  soft  features  and 
covered  her  face.  She  was  trying  to 
measure  the  duplicity  of  his  youth.  Then 
she  herself  was  not  the  only  woman 
whom  he  had  caused  to  suffer  after  he 
had  wooed  and  won  her  love  1 

"  It  was  before  I  knew  you  that  hap 
pened,"  he  hastened  to  say;  "you  wont 
hold  me  a  sinner  for  what  I  did  before, 


A  WOMAN'S  RIGHT. 


215 


will  you  ?  I  see  you  despise  me.  That's 
hard,  when  I'm  more  than  punished  for 
my  sins  already.  I  am  glad  to  have  you 
pity  me,  but  I  am  not  so  far  gone  as  to 
be  willing  that  you  should  despise  me. 
What  a  dolt  I  am  to  sit  here  confessing 
every  thing ! — you  thought  me  mean 
enough  before.  I  told  Helena  long  be 
fore  we  were  married  that  I  did  not  love 
her  as  I  ought  to  love  my  wife.  You  will 
give  me  credit  for  that  ?" 

"  Gladly.  It  makes  it  seem  a  little 
less  wrong.  For  what  could  be  harder  to 
a  wife  than  to  find  out  that  the  husband 
that  she  married  for  love  married  her 
without  it?  I  could  not  help  pitying 
her.  " 

"  You  make  me  pity  her  myself.  Poor 
Helena !  I  think  we  might  have  gone  on 
well  as  the  world  goes,  for  I  did  admire 
her  and  she  had  splendid  traits,  and  she 
did  love  me  if  it  had  not  been  for  that — 
devil.  You  look !  The  word's  too  good 
for  her.  More  than  seven  devils  live  and 
flourish  inside  of  her  pink  and  white 
skin.  How  anything  can  look  so  fair  and 
be  so  false,  so  innocent  and  be  so  wicked, 
is  more  than  I  can  understand,"  said 
the  man  hopelessly,  for  the  most  treacher 
ous  man  feels  like  innocence  itself,  when 
he  attempts  to  measure  the  subtlety  of  an 
evil  woman.  "  It  wa,s  not  enough  that  she 
carne  between  us,  robbed  me  of  you,  des 
troyed  the  last  chance  of  good  in  my 
life.  She  waited  till  I  was  married  to 
Helena  Maynard,  then  went  to  her  and 
told  her  everything — all  about  you,  all 
about  herself — that  she  had  jilted  me, 
that  a  shop  girl  had  jilted  me,  and  that 
Helena  had  taken  their  leavings.  And 
as  if  the  truth  was  not  bad  enough, 
made  up  any  number  of  falsehoods,  of 
how  I  had  ridiculed  Helena  to  her  ;  how 
I  had  told  how  long  she  had  been  in 
love  with  me,  how  she  had  worked  for 
me,  and  even  proposed  to  me — every 
thing  that  could  torture  and  insult  a  proud 
woman  and  wife.  I  came  home  to  din 
ner  one  day,  and  found  a  Niobe,  a  mar 
ble  woman,  dressed  in  black,  sitting  at 
the  head  of  the  table.  Helena  liked 
high  tragedy  and  stage  effects,  but 
she  was  not  acting  then.  She  came  to 
life  once,  blazed  upon  me,  told  me  what 


she  thought  of  me.  The  opinion  was 
not  flattering.  I  have  never  forgiven, 
her,  and  she  has  never  forgiven  me. 
She  is  as  proud  as  Lucifer.  She  would 
have  forgiven  me  many  things,  but  not 
my  ridiculing  her  to  a  rival  whom  she 
had  always  hated, — not  my  seeking  her 
only  when  that  rival  had  refused  me. 
She  met  Belle  Brescott's  stories  every 
where.  The  charming  Madam  Ovedo 
told  them  all  through  Boston  as  delight 
ful  jokes. 

"  Helena  went  her  way,  I  mine,  and 
the  way  has  been  from  bad  to  worse.  We 
live  in  one  house,  but  we  do  not  meet 
now  even  as  friends.  She  will  never 
forgive  me  for  some  things  that  I  have 
done.  I  will  never  forgive  her  for  what 
she  is  doing.  As  for  the  other  one,  the 

,  I'll  never  forgive  her  in  time  or 

eternity;  my  curse  follows  her  in  life 
and  in  death.  She  can't  escape  forever, 
if  she  does  flourish  and  fatten  on  sugar 
at  present, — that  is  my  consolation." 

"  I  was  sorry  for  your  wife  when  you 
spoke  of  her  first,  now  I  am  sorry  for 
you  both,"  said  Birene.  "  I  only  wish  it 
were  in  my  power  to  help  you  in  some 
way,  to  bring  you  nearer  together." 

"  Thank  you ;  but  you  could  not  help 
us.  We  are  past  being  helped,  there  are 
injuries  on  both  sides  that  can't  be  for 
given.  My  child  (with  the  air  of  a  pa 
triarch),  you  don't  know  it,  but  it  is  true; 
when  people,  through  a  long  process  of 
mutual  injuries,  have  grown  to  hate  each 
other,  they  can't  un-hate  at  any  one's  me 
diation.  If  you  were  to  attempt  it,  Hel 
ena  would  wither  you  at  a  glance.  She 
likes  to  face  the  world.  She  likes  to 
face  great  audiences,  to  strike  tragic  at 
titudes,  and  to  sweep  the  platform  amid 
a  roar  of  applause.  She  has  troops  of 
admirers,  followers,  and  friends,  any  one 
of  whom  could  tell  you  all  about  her  aw 
ful  husband.  If  she  hasn't  a  husband, 
she  has  '  a  career  1 '  You  have  heard 
of  such  a  thing,  haven't  you  ?  What 
is  your  opinion  of  careers?  Mine  is, 
that  when  a  married  woman  is  in  such 
violent  pursuit  of  one  that  she  goes 
lecturing  through  the  land,  there  is 
usually  something  the  matter  at  home. 
Happy  wives  and  mothers  don't  go 


216 


EIRENE : 


about  the  country  lecturing  on  suffrage, 
or  anything  else,  do  you  think  so?" 

"As  a  rule,  no,'1  said  Eirene;  "yet  I 
know  some  exceptions — women  very 
happy  at  home,  and  in  all  the  relations 
of  life,  who  yet  feel  that  they  have  some 
thing  to  say  in  public,  and  say  it" 

"  But  you  wouldn't  lecture,  would 
you  ?  " 

"  No,  I  couldn't  to  an  audience  larger 
than  one,"  said  Eirene,  laughing. 

"  Did  you  go  to  the  war  ?  "  she  asked, 
anxious  to  turn  his  thoughts  from  a  sub 
ject  evidently  so  disagreeable.  "  The 
awful  reality  of  the  war  must  have  help 
ed  you  to  forget  your  own  troubles." 

"No.  I  don't  look  like  the  sort  of 
man  that  would  go  to  the  war,  do  I  ?  I 
am  just  the  sort  to  send  a  substitute,  and 
I  sent  one.  I  staid  at  home  and  let  you 
go.  Wasn't  that  manly  ?  " 

"  I  deserve  no  credit  for  going.  I  fol 
lowed  my  brother,  to  do  the  little  that  I 
could.  I  couldn't  do  less." 

"  Nor  more.  I  know  all  about  it. 
Hilltop  is  not  a  thousand  miles  from 
Busyville." 

"  Then  you  still  go  to  Busyville  ?  " 

"  Yes,  and  shall  every  year  while  mo 
ther  lives.  Mother  and  I  are  nearer 
together  than  we  used  to  be.  Father  is 
dead.  Father  was  a  good  man.  He  was 
always  your  friend,  Eirene." 

"  I  know  that  he  was,  and  I  have  al 
ways  remembered  him  with  gratitude. 
He  was  very  kind  to  me  and  to  my  fa 
ther." 

"  Mother  is  a  good  deal  broken.  She 
goes  away  in  corners  and  cries  and  talks 
to  herself.  Will  you  believe  it,  she 
sometimes  talks  about  you?  If  she 
could  see  you  she  would  cry,  and  ask 
you  to  forgive  her.  You  see  she  is  dis 
appointed  in  me.  I  am  rich  enough,  but 
I  am  not  great,  and  she  wanted  me  to  be 
both.  Because  I  am  not,  some  way  she 
thinks  that  she  herself  is  to  blame;  that 
if  she  had  let  us  alone,  if  she  had  not 
interfered  as  she  did,  that  I  would  be 
happier,  and  greater,  and  better  now. 
She  said  so  to  me  once.  She  spoke  of  my 
unhappy  home,  and  said  that  if  she  had 
her  life  to  live  over  that  she  would  do  so 
differently.;  said  she  was  sorry  for  the 


way  she  treated  you.  This  made  mother 
and  me  nearer  together  than  we  ever 
were  before." 

There  was  real  pathos  in  Paul's  voice 
as  he  uttered  these  words.  The  tears 
arose  to  Eirene's  eyes  as  she  heard  them. 

"  Thank  you  for  your  kindness,"  she 
said.  "  Please  tell  your  mother  I  have 
nothing  to  remember  but  this." 

"  You  have  a  son,"  he  said,  looking 
up  at  the  portrait.  "  If  you  live  to  see 
him  a  man,  think  of  me.  And  if  he  real 
ly  sets  his  heart  on  any  one,  don't  try  to 
thwart  him.  Whatever  else  you  try  to 
keep  him  from,  don't  try  to  keep  him 
from  marrying  the  woman  that  he  loves, 
if  he  can  get  her.  It  is  he  who  is  to 
marry  her,  not  you.  Not  that  I  hold 
mother  to  blame  for  my  own  meanness, 
not  I." 

*'  Do  you  never  go  to  Busyville  ?  " 

"Never.  I  supposed  there  my  very 
existence  was  forgotten." 

"What!  not  know  more  of  a  Yankee 
village  than  that!  The  mind  of  Busy 
ville  never  forgets  anybody  that  it  can 
gossip  over.  Did  you  suppose  &  mar 
riage  like  your's  could  take  place  within 
thirty  miles,  and  it  not  be  deeply  exer 
cised  over  it  ?  Why,  I  heard  all  about 
it  in  the  summer  when  I  came  up  to 
see  mother.  Poor  mother !  She  don't 
know  herself  how  many  degrees  you 
have  risen  in  her  estimation  since  she 
has  heard  you  spoken  of  as  the  wife  of  a 
rich  and  influential  man.  I  have  long 
known  of  Dr.  De  Peyster  through  ac 
quaintances.  I  have  walked  by  your 
door  a  hundred  times,  meditating  on 
compensation,  and  retribution,  and  you! 
Yet  I  dare  say  you  thought  I  had  for 
gotten  you  as  well  as  Busyville  ?  " 

"  No,  Paul,  it  is  not  so  easy  to  forget 
one's  own  life." 

"I  haven't  found  it  very  easy.  The 
meanest  man  can't  forget  quite.  My 
domestic  bliss  at  least  has  not  been  suf 
ficient  to  obliterate  the  only  happiness 
that  I  ever  knew.  Your  fancying  that 
Busyville  had  forgotten  you  makes  me 
think  of  Viner.  You  remember  Viner, 
don't  you  ?  He  left  there  years  ago,  yet 
you  should  hear  those  dear  sisters  go  on 
about  him." 


A  WOMAN'S  RIGHT. 


217 


"  Why,  what  did  he  do !"  asked  Eirene. 

"  He  committed  an  unpardonable 
crime." 

"  Crime !  He  seemed  like  a  very  good 
young  man." 

"  Well,  he  was,  but  that's  not  the 
thing.  He  committed  a  crime  for  which 
the  united  sisterhood  of  the  Bustler 
church  will  never  forgive  him — he  mar 
ried  outside  of  it." 

"Oh!  that  was  all.  I'm  quiet  re- 
leived.  I  remember  him  as  such  a  good 
man  and  delightful  preacher.  I  should 
certainly  be  very  sorry  to  hear  that  he 
had  done  anything  worse." 

"  As  if  that  were  not  bad  enough  I 
It  was  rich,  the  whole  thing.  The 
man  hasn't  got  to  the  bottom  of  the 
trunk  yet,  filled  with  slippers,  tidies,  and 
book-marks  embroidered  for  him  by  the 
young  sisters  of  the  church.  He  has 
been  away  for  his  health,  but  his  health 
was  well  enough  till  the  doting  sisters 
stuffed  him  with  pies  and  pickles,  and 
'ris'  cake.  It  was,  '  dear  brother  Viner  ! ' 
'such  a  lovely  spirit,' '  such  a  gifted  young 
divine,'  till  one  morning,  sudden  as  a 
thunder-clap,  he  was  a  demon,  a  hypocrite, 
a  villain !  how  had  they  been  so  deceived  I 
He  was  not  at  all  what  they  thought  he 
was, — no,  no! — he  had  married  the 
squire's  daughter,  Tilly  Blane,  and  not 
a  sister  in  the  church  had  ever  suspect 
ed  that  he  was  even  acquainted  with 
her." 

''  'Why,'  I  said,  '•  mother,  you  wanted 
me  to  marry  her ;  if  she  is  good  enough  for 
me,  isn't  she  good  enough  for  Viner?  ' 

" '  That's  nothing  to  the  point,'  she 
said.  '  He  is  a  minister,  and  should  have 
married  in  his  own  church,  and  a  pious 
girl!' 

"  '  You  have  always  told  me  that  Tilly 
was  pious,'  I  said. 

" '  In  their  way,'  she  answered.  'What 
can  she  do  in  class-meeting,  or  female 
prayer  meeting  ?  She  is  good  for  nothing 
but  to  play  the  piano  and  crochet  lamp 
mats.  She  knows  no  more  than  her 
mother  before  her.' 

"  'I'm  sorry  you  should  have  insisted 
on  such  a  wife  for  me,'  I  said. '  or  else  that 
you  should  have  so  changed  your  opinion 
of  dear  Tilly.' 


"  '  Why  witt  you  aggravate  me  Paul,' 
she  said ;  'you  are  not — Viner — my  broth 
er  in  the  Lord ;  he  is  no  more.  To  think 
of  his  deep  deceit.  He  did  show  an  un 
common  interest  in  your  sister  Grace, 
there's  no  denying  that.  He  has  trifled 
with  her  young  affections.  He  has  fallen 
in  my  estimation  as  far  as  the  earth 
below  the  sky, — he  is  a  hypocrite  and 
a  deceiver.' 

"  '  Oh !  he  is  neither,'  I  said.  '  You 
were  always  getting  him  to  pray  with 
Grace — praying  was  his  business,  he 
couldn't  do  less ;  I  neyer  heard  of  any 
further  attentions.  Let  her  marry  Simp- 
kins.  She  has  no  style,  and  never  had 
any.  She'd  be  a  world  happier  feeding 
the  chickens  on  Simpkins's  farm  than  in 
dragging  around  the  country  worrying 
her  life  out  in  trying  to  please  several 
hundred  sisters  in  the  Lord  like  you. 
Tilly  Blane  is  just  the  one.  She  will 
play  on  her  piano,  and  please  her  hus 
band,  and  the  sisters  may  sing  or  howl, 
and  it'll  be  all  the  same  to  her.' " 

"  But  Busy ville  has  never  forgiven  Vi 
ner.  If  he  were  to  go  there  to-day  to 
preach,  the  united  sisterhood  would  arise 
in  one  virtuous  body  and  leave  the 
church." 

"  But  has  kind,  good  Grace  married  ?  " 
asked  Eirene. 

"  Yes,  married  Simpkins,  and  lives  in 
the  big  white  house  on  the  farm.  She 
is  as  happy  as  she  can  be  among  her 
chickens  and  babies,  with  a  husband 
just  adapted  to  her.  I  went  out  to  see 
her  the  other  day,  and  as  we  were  sitting 
in  the  piazza  after  tea,  Simpkins  exclaim 
ed:  '  There  comes  the  presiding  elder, 
and  the  elderess.  I  hope  your  pantry  is 
ready  for  inspection,  Grace.'  As  he 
said  this,  I  saw  a  little  dapper  old  gentle 
man,  with  a  conceited  smirk  and  a  white 
choker,  proceed  from  an  ancient  chaise, 
followed  by  a  gaunt  woman  with  a  high 
nose  and  round,  sharp  eyes,  looking  red 
as  coals  through  her  spectacles.  Even 
they  could  not  hide  my  ancient  enemy, 
Tilda  Stade,  on  a  visit  of  church  inspec 
tion  with  her  spouse.  I  had  no  inten 
tion  of  speaking  to  her,  and  didn't  expect 
that  she  would  to  me,  but  she  did ;  she 
walked  straight  up  to  me,  and  said,  '  I 


218 


EIRENE: 


told  you  so  f  The  Judge  of  all  the  earth 
will  do  right.' 

"  '  Yes,'  I  said,  '  and  if  he  has  hit  a  fel 
low  enough  already,  why  do  you  come 
and  strike  him  another  blow.  Do  you 
call  that  Christian  ? ' 

"  She  thought  a  moment,  then  said, '  No, 
I  don't.1 

"I  added,  'Follow  your  master,  then. 
If  a  man  is  punished  enough  already,  let 
him  alone.' 

"  She  set  her  eyes  on  me,  extended  her 
bony  hand,  lifted  up  her  voice,  and  said, 
'  Paul  Mallane,  I  believe  there  is  some 
good  even  in  you.' 

"'Thank  you,'  I  answered.  'I  presume 
there  is  some  good  even  in  you,  but  I 
have  had  a  very  disagreeable  time  in 
finding  it  out.'  " 

"  If  you  can  do  as  much  as  Tilda.  Ei- 
rene,  give  me  j7our  hand  in  forgiveness, 
and  say  that,  in  spite  of  my  sins,  you 
believe  there  is  some  good  even  in  me. 
I  will  go  away  a  little  happier,  and  never 
trouble  you  again." 

"  You  do  not  trouble  me.  Paul,"  she 
said  in  her  sweet,  tremulous  voice.  "  It  is 
the  good  in  you  that  I  will  remember. 
I  pray  God  to  give  you  peace,  and  a 
happier  life." 

"  Thank  you." 

These  words  were  on  his  lips  as  the 
street  door  opened,  and  in  a  moment 
Pierre  De  Peyster  entered  the  library, 
glancing  with  a  look  of  surprise  from  his 
wife's  face  to  the  stranger's,  on  both  of 
which  were  visible  signs  of  emotion  not 
joyful. 

Eirene  introduced  the  two  gentlemen, 
and  in  the  same  instant  each  measured 
and  estimated  the  other. 

"  You  have  a  perfect  right  to  kick  me 
out  of  your  house,  Dr.  De  Peyster,"  said 
Paul  in  his  old  brusque  way,  "  and  I  pre 
sume  that  your  opinion  of  me  would 
justify  you  in  doing  it.  I  apologize  to 
yon,  as  I  have  already  done  to  Mrs.  De 
Peyster,  for  coming  here  uninvited.  I 
came  partly  because  I  was  unhappy,  and 
partly  because  I  didn't  just  realize  what 
I  was  doing,  to  catch  a  glimpse  of  the 
happiness  which  I  knew  must  be  yours 
and  hers.  I  felt  that  it  would  be  some 
thing  from  my  load  to  see  for  myself 


that  it  had  not  been  in  my  "wretched 
power  to  mar  the  life  of  the  truest 
woman  that  I  ever  knew." 

"  You  are  welcome,"  Mr.  Mallane,  said 
Pierre  De  Peyster,  extending  his  hand. 
"You  have  disarmed  whatever  resentment 
I  might  have  felt.  Any  one  whom  Mrs. 
De  Peyster  welcomes  is  welcome  to  me. 
Will  you  stay  and  dine  with  us?  " 

"  No,  thank  you.  Even  I  am  not  saint 
enough  to  want  to  see  too  much  happi 
ness.  I  am  witness  already  to  all  that  I 
feel  able  to  bear.  You  wouldn't  dine  in 
my  house  if  you  stood  in  it  as  I  stand  in 
yours !  The  club  house  is  the  place  for 
men  like  me  to  dine  in.  When  you 
come  to  Boston,  Dr.  De  Peyster,  I  shall 
invite  you  to  mine,  and  do  the  little  in 
my  power  to  prove  to  you  that  I  can 
appreciate  both  hospitality  and  a  true 
gentleman." 

He  was  turning  to  depart,  but  just 
then  there  was  a  knock  at  the  door,  and 
the  nurse,  who  had  heard  the  street 
door  open,  appeared  as  usual  bringing  the 
boy  with  the  "  ridiculous  nose  "  to  see  his 
father. 

"  I  kiss  him  for  his  mother,"  said  Paul 
Mallane,  pausing  on  the  threshold  and 
bending  down  to  kiss  the  smiling  child. 
"I  have  lost  and  you  have  won,"  he 
added,  turning  to  Pierre  De  Peyster.  "  I 
deserved  to  lose,  and  you  deserved  to 
win.  So  I  could  not  hate  you  if  I 
tried." 

"  There  is  that  in  you  which  deserves 
a  happier  fate.  I  could  not  hate  yon  if 
I  tried,"  answered  Pierre. 

"  If  any  man  living  was  so  to  triumph 
before  my  face,  I  am  glad  he  is  a  gentle 
man,  and  a  noble  man,  that's  some  com 
fort  at  least  to  me,"  said  Paul,  and  he 
looked  from  the  grand  man  to  the  lovely 
woman  by  his  side. 

The  eyes  of  both  men  rested  upon  her 
face.  In  the  same  instant  both  realized, 
the  one  all  that  he  had  lost,  the  other 
all  that  he  had  won. 

"Farewell,"  he  said,  extending  his 
hand  to  Eirene,  and  in  another  moment 
the  door  of  De  Peyster  house  shut  upon 
Paul  Mallane  forever. 

As  it  closed  husband  and  wife  turned 
instinctively  toward  each  other.  Pierre 


A  WOMAN'S  RIGHT. 


219 


drew  Eirene  to  the  window,  and  they 
stood  in  silence  till  the  tall  form  of  Paul 
Mallane  disappeared  in  the  twilight 
through  the  shrubbery  of  the  park. 

"I  don't  want  to  go  and  hear  that 
lecture  this  evening,''  said  Eirene. 

"  I  am  glad  of  it,  my  love,  for  I  am 
sure  that  I  don't  want  to  go." 

"  So  I  have  seen  that  man,  and  could 
not  hate  him.  Now  I  understand  how 
it  was  that  you  cared  for  him.  If  you 
had  married  him,  you  would  have  loved 
him  always." 

"  Yes,  and  have  doubted  him  always. 
Can  you  think  of  more  absolute  torture 


than  to  love  and  distrust  the  same  per 
son  ?  My  only  refuge  would  be  to  flee 
from  such  an  one  forever.  Where  I  love 
I  must  believe." 

"  Do  you  believe  in  me  ?  " 

"  Without  a  doubt  and  without  a  fear, 
you  are  truth  itself.  I  trust  you  as  I 
trust  God." 

"  Bless  you !  You  give  me  uie  purest 
happiness  that  a  man  can  know." 

"  And  mine  is  the  highest  right  ever 
won  by  woman,"  said  Eirene,  kissing  the 
face  bent  down  to  hers  "  to  be  the  honored 
and  beloved  wife  of  the  one  man  I  would 
have  chosen  out  of  all  the  world." 


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